Just being playful, dying in increments, laughing in
helium cries; like best friends, so vulnerable, a shot of cognac; I could remember
you, talking smack, gazing deeply, figurines at it. I write from bone and
flesh. I wash quickly, as to return to musing. Grit and light, off course,
suffocating one breath; making passion, giggling during, rolling around, sport
and challenge; as best friends, it shouldn’t hurt, like a miracle to forgive
each other—serious flame, forbidden skies, art and weathering storms—a fire
flickers, blue madness, special anxieties—to die like that. so uncomfortable,
so happy, flowing in prose, writing a novel, acting out a novella; so casual
about necks, so bloodshot and bleeding, at a place where pain seems natural. Made
necessary, made eternal, something to distorting reason; trying to forget it,
dispute it, at mercy of strange dice; a man can propose, a woman can say, “No”,
like living isn’t hard enough. Like girlfriends, loving and hating life,
trapped in thoughts of happiness.
