Bending your arms in all the wrong positions to fit with mine, elbowing you in an attempt to stop your snoring, hogging the sheets that smell of yesterday’s sex, listening to the sounds the morning makes when you just want it to be still. Wish you were here.
Attempting to sleep in, pet names, candy watermelon slices, sea foam green nails, crossing my fingers for tan lines, dirty feet, 143, 400 speed film, Broder Cafe, “insert excited air grabs here”, open windows, the baby dance, happiness induced cheek spasms, neighborhood walks, peonies, blood orange sorbet, Whiskeytown blasting in the Mini, cold brew from Stumptown, Google hearts, attempting to document the little things, the new Black Keys album, Six Feet Under marathons, that one First Aid Kit song on repeat, the anticipation of it all.
he sat naked and drunk in a room of summer night, running the blade of the knife under his fingernails, smiling, thinking of all the letters he had received
telling him that the way he lived and wrote about that— it had kept them going when all seemed truly hopeless.
putting the blade on the table, he flicked it with a finger and it whirled
in a flashing circle
under the light.
who the hell is going to save
me? he
thought.
as the knife stopped spinning
the answer came:
you’re going to have to
save yourself.
still smiling,
a:
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