Stacy’s thighs are springtime and Paris fireworks nights, and Christ Himself would be speechless when she parts. I am hit in the third rib thinking of us running away, running back to bed, and when she looks at me I see Missouri’s stars. We know what we wish we were to one another. I cannot keep promises I don’t make but when I am silent all we hear are gas pipes hissing inside the chest cavity systems. I don’t wanna be the one to love more, I wanna be in love, and that’s all and that’s enough. I’m no Dim Stars or dinette set, no plaything or write, write right about the last rites I lay down as promise silverware during dinner. Just remember we grow green from scorched earth too, and I hold my breath for your phone calls.