I swear, if I hear one more
radio song about *** and
drugs and parties and
*** and drugs and
parties, I will
personally reach into the
wiring of the stereo and shove a
pocket bible into its mouth.

When I was younger,
I had a strange fascination with
power lines. I'd follow their path for
hours, and knaw at the rubber until
those sparks set me on fire - because
the lines never stopped, you see?
They went on and on Forever, and
I thought that maybe I could too.

On the day I traveled to see you,
the bus smelled of cigar smoke and the
stench of perfume.
As I rode past derilict cities
and electrical towers,
I realized the
tenacity of my own
strength.

In the humid evening,
you voiced your thoughts on
modesty and
independance.
And as I listened to
songs of short skirts,
****** harassement, and the
inherent dangers of my actions,
I discovered my
hatred for that
phrase:
“Especially for girls.”

On most nights,the candle flames
flicker and dance, but tonight,
the flames stand still.

In the gathering dusk, we
stand and watch the
shadows grow.
Blood pink rays
scatter onto a sea of
dark clouds overhead as,
in the distance, a
brilliantly clear patch of
golden sky stretches out onto the horizon and illuminates the
entirety of our souls.

Hand in hand,
we fill what is gone with
warm summer evenings,
and a song, and the
dark outlines of
far away homes.

Summer was a sunset of
fiery oranges and pinks that
demanded to be seen.

A cascade of sexist phisophical texts was
the only constant admist
internship talks, a
wavering appetite for
electronic poetry, and the sight of
distant fireworks through a
tinted bus window.

In between the screaming pain in
six dozen muscle fibers,
I entertained a
whirlwind of friends from
elementary, middle, and high school with café talks and bar trivia, and returned home, alone in the
early hours of the new day,
to dictate fervent writings onto a
screen of shatted glass.

I took off your shirt, and the
golden chain around your neck that
bore the mark of Christ.