Three Weeks

I forget backstrokes always, like a slip-up satisfaction, ’cause I’d rather you know I’m drowning in you that to play this pretend. I woke up this morning and realized I need you after hunger-strike release and after noticing the freckles on her lips, before backs turned on me. The maybe-baby of my shoulder shrugs is tiring, baby, maybe, call me and kiss me or baby, maybe act like this is an REM whisper track. When all my skin cells are replaced by newer, older, wiser men I will not expect you to wake up with me but I think we can agree I am a lighthouse, and I need constant tending against waves; routine maintenance is your forte, yes? Build back up with broken parts, with your lips on my spine, I’ll tell you which lines of this were inspired by the song I hear when you call me in the morning, or at least that’s the truth behind it. Write me a letter about the things you miss; I want graphic details of your soul’s collapse inward, like a demolition man’s wet dreams, we built the house with no structure so it burnt like paper. When I feel the dark walls slanting towards this foldable frame I remember the light in his eyes and I am more real than anything you gave me.

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