A shoulder covered in constellations that remark in the daytime. Hands look best when weaved like grandmother’s quilt. If I promise I don’t have anything like contagion or pre-set alarm clock, will you let me stay? How long did you wait once I left before you scrubbed me off your skin. In the summertime, scars need no black-light detection to form stares. She blames it on unnecessary childhood and rough sex or razorblades that grew dull on forearms and wrists. Music can tell you I’m in more than like with you, but my teeth turn into traffic accidents when articulation is tried. How dirty am I? Lady at the park tells me I’m ruined. We are this way because of traveling fingers and repressed hard drives. Miles Davis will blow me into another poem and loneliness will accompany me out the door.