the tendrils of evening have not gone
they are shadow puppets on a
wall that can breathe
they are fingers that taste the paint
soft & round like his body
smaller than mine but strong.
where i am bountiful he subtracts
metered in the most delicate way
white follicles that slope between his thighs.
i could pluck his cells like a violin
with my tongue,
drink from the pores of his lower back.
to devour his unwashed skin
would still not be enough.

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it’s so strange to feel so many things in such a short amount of time.

i’m not sure what this is but i do know that it’s warm & slow & makes me feel a little bit less like a hole where a person used to be.

his body is like syrup and i drink and drink in the way i’d guzzle water in the middle of august. the round curves of him, the way his hips widen in a way that is feminine and i like it. i am thinking about the way he buttons his shirt when it’s the only piece of clothing he has, my eyes drifting down, his vague hardness a parody of what it was only a few minutes before. someday someday i’ll touch him without such guilt.

cold nights in well

piercing cold in the dark by the field, long grass and a quiet breeze and field mice that ran over our toes in the dark. wandering back from the bar, drunk and stoned, that crisp european air tastes the same in well as it does in brussels, in paris, in prague. we are here, in a place from a dream, and we hold hands and skip back to our beds in the night. remember how this feels. remember the lonely feeling of being surrounded by 100 people all the time but knowing none of them. so isolated from the rest of your world in a way that connects you so deeply to the rest of it.

walking over cold cobblestones in paris.

i don’t know what i’m saying. lots of memories tonight.

it’s such a cliche to write about the ocean but it’s all my mind is on, a brain submerged in brine, salt and acid eating away at the cells. i dream of ash-colored girls, of shells and sand that tornadoes around in trills of air, like the wind wants to sing but can’t find the right pitch. i drink it in with my eyes like my ears but it’s not the same, gulping with pupils won’t sustain me like the┬ásea, gasping at the foam while i drown, diffuse, decay. i will become one with it, particles of person floating on the waves, till it carries me out to forever, till i am forever. i am the place where the sky meets the sea. i am that shadow of horizon you think you can see but you can’t, i am figment, i don’t really exist at all.