Crimson and easy on the eyes, I’ve ever seen, darling, kiss me nauseous with the murmurs traveling from your teeth. We exist in wordplay, you are aquas, you are pinks, I am prairies inviting you future home. A year is a long time to wait underneath our nail beds but I felt like we could twist the definition of lacking to fit our webbing.

I chatter. You turn your head.

We can bustle too, brimstone tracks and carbon paper copies of fidelity. I teem and writhe and seethe with reflections on armor versus strangers; I am the comfort you call home (touching the road). Like a knockout with the sun down, in this framework shades coated alabaster and gold. When sugar prior electric– I miss your taste and promise.


September 15.

Do I taste things in a morning cup of coffee, dear, that you can only picture? Enunciation through porcelain, I am forgotten and beget until the dew is temple-pressed from visions in your sleep. Weekly redactions are time and money and you are the shorn hairs caught up in all my old sweaters. Comparisons will get us nowhere. God caught your curves and kept his eyelids in a box under my bed. I miss rings on my fingers and thinking we could not die; we destroy ourselves instead.