Pictures of our waste render appendages so simple sweet. I can feel my body hair buzz; all heads swirl like lead paint when the city skyline looks too similar to your wrist . Mouths fill with plasma, red cells, rancor, reminders, time stops like a deadbeat dime when we cross those tracks to the wrong side of your bed. You have vaulted ceilings, I have all your old journals. You have two years of distance, I have a track runner’s heart. Conjoined is conditional for some but I have bear claw mark scars on my cheeks as honey-do’s. Sip red wine as you spiral, child’s toy; keep it up, we never grow old in St. Louis. Ask me why I still write, I have a good horror story somewhere on old bar napkins. Frame me like a patron saint for future blame games inside an outpatient center, from my upturned to my downtrodden to our backs holding weight. Sail smoothly through your veins.


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