“The music is like a passport and how to make a donut so lonely it forgets its fried birth and your fingers may find mine like a fixed-gear contraption but Saturday is a mourning of leftovers and–”
I’m leaving you.
“Your feet are curdled, crossed at ankles and I like that my tongue memorized your teeth ridges but here in Brooklyn, an audience of newspapers and muffin crumbs touch us with their blinks, skimming the salt drips on my face.”
Your temperature is hungry and I am without.
“What can friends become once limbs grow like mattresses and sleep stretches into inter-locked dreams but you’ve … you’ve–”
Insomniac’d and sleep walked on fire escapes just to–
Let’s stage a puncture.
“I climbed billboards to see your point of view and then I jumped.”
The shadow of your blood echoes against my ribcage.
“My sadness is contagious to the ones who listen but you are immune.”
How about we grow our wrists until August to see what shapes we become and compare.
“Or we can tie our organs to each other because tangling so often leads to–”