Senses.

1. Smell

I am on the corner of Mozart and Diversey and it smells like Mrs. Marino’s block that night we went to visit easier times on the tideline and your sons walked me round until I could not breathe with rage. You ask me if I want to go back and I cannot answer; you do not know of suicide calls in a timeline preserved outside the picture’s frame. I am already back to a moment of drawing the blinds around my neck against the sounds of the Atlantic. They tear down old buildings these days.

2. Sound

We don’t miss Margaret; the name seems familiar like an old acquaintance, you say, and twelve hours keep me perched on your cerebellum, drag so tied behind our hands that she was your stranger. Strange bedfellows were we, two brothers teaming. She is an obscure line I miss when you say we should write out our wills, and I agree.

3. Touch

When my legs hum I know you are a sunrise, touching your dew on my fingertips (get my nose wet). Corners feel like drawls, I am firmer in translucence but you are a warm wave, my dear Mary. I know how heavy your eyes get and I am doomed with a dry throat so I exhale to the gods in your teeth and crack the remaining bones. Our joints are loosed enough to roll, so slip softly under until we forget nature’s toll.

4. Taste

And now I am in your living room, the air humid and pounding in my head. I am indulgent in nightly reveries, self-aware enough to know you are set inside brick and I am on a warm breeze. I love the way your cigarettes linger like awkward statements we made in liquor stores. I can feel your pulse on my tongue already tonight.

5. Sight

Pick up these pieces you left behind when the hangovers hit us in the form of your eye beams high beams, your hair strands found in my underwear and jersey blend sheet set two weeks ago (set to stone but burning like day-glo, sparking like coals), loose lips and hand-holds on iron-grate bridges keeping knives in our shoes and fake i.d.’s, in our lower colons, cum collections, night stands, and social tongue twisters. I am desperately wishing things could work out but coulda shoulda woulda store themselves in these pills.

I am building my bones.

I don’t ever want you to end, sweet song; this is the thought that keeps me up stomachfuturesick. We start fires, turning as if an oasis was the pit in our stomachs as we move. There are no animals here. I want to slip notes into your wailing walls. When my eyes rest upon this someday they will say this is where love blooms, in canvas canyons painted by a brush of the lips, drunk off of religious fervor. Nothing wicked this way deemed us fit for consumption (internal combustion kept our raw hides in deserts but the moon can wane so poetically on your thumbs). I want you to know what my soul feels like behind my clavicle, where it sits waiting for you. August is a fight club and I am counting prayer beads; say my name more softly with your hand on the small of my back/intertwined with mine/inside me/bursting forth into everything we both wanted. I live for days off of sparse words.