Thank you so much, this is beautiful. You don’t know how much it means to me.
Did I conduct the electricity or just
describe it? I remember
a series of bodies pitted against mine.
I don’t remember who invited them,
or what the arc of consent was.
The echo of it, the yes in stereo, the magnets
behind our breastbones.
The keys in our palms.
The backs of whose knees hummed — I wanted
that shoulder in my mouth
the way I held yours; and it was small, and fit there.
I want a pen pal…
Here, I stay awake until the night has found love beneath the stars. Under the incline of the moon, the grass is always brighter, flared, but silent. I stay awake until my eyes sear and my eyelids fall like blankets over them, like spreading butter on burnt toast. I carry details in my pockets like sewn edges and spill them whenever I can, down sidewalks and railroads. Sometimes I bury them under the crisp leaves in my backyard and give them to the wind. If I dont, they become heavier and heavier, until I can’t lift myself out of bed.
Crush my ribs and steal my heart. Crack the code, open the vaults. There is nothing left to take, there is nothing else.
Things that were beautiful today (May 19th)
- Letting the sand burrow underneath my toes, the grains limp and soft. Walking barefoot in the grass afterwards, although alone.
- Closing my eyes and pretending that I did not belong to a body. Escaping. Leaving the city, the country and then the world. Losing every sense. Merging into the earth, and out. Running into light, and becoming it. Finally, falling asleep and waking to the face of our star.
- I wanted to hold the sun, peel it off the sky, undress it and make it mine. I wanted to beg it to never leave. At night, it slipped out of my fingers, and dissolved into the sky. It hasn’t come back since.
Things that were beautiful today (May 17th)
- The ache in my ankles from walking the sunlit streets, stopping to smell the flowers and touch the grass.
- Remembering that we are made of atoms. Remembering that we are inside the universe. Remembering that there is always something there, but not always time. Remembering that it’s okay as long as we have a hand to hold.
- Holding a hand.
I collect cigarettes off the sidewalks
when no one is looking, and keep them
in a jar of dried flowers, dead flowers,
sealed with daisy chains, sealed in mauve.
They remind me of our burnt edges
and days when I cannot sleep.
They remind me of ripped books and
stale dirt caught between the cracks in the road.
Their scent never leaves me.