we drove into a flushed pink sunset
our eyes brimming with lighter shades
of red and smiles, uninterested in the
promise that fate brought and carried
by the ideas of each other. He seemed
keen to me both surprised by my
existence and willingness to bridge
into his cove of a life and pleased
by the way i fit so neat to the rhythms
of his beats. He splayed
khaki shoulders and thin legs
against netted lawn chairs,
happy to watch me laugh and
bounce with his lilac-haired ex
whose voice took on the comical
pitch of Minnie Mouse when she
was high or drunk or trying too hard
as she told me about Fidelity,
the tattoo parlor that she traveled an
hour to just to meet up with some
artist whose name she couldn't
remember but trusted so so much
and teared up when I told her about
my nose hoop that I had to get rid
of because some sketchy artist used
an earing that wasn't Nickel free
on me but swore that he did.
We had fun that day. He ambled
over when Glass Animal's
Gooey revved up and we
screamed the words into
each other's lungs, certain that our
breaths would swell each other up
and help us float away.

Don't let them drown you

I used to call Tim Ben
until I heard his
ex call him as such
with a light trill in her
voice, he never told me
it was serious. He said
that it was this thing
and I figured that it was
just like this thing
that we're having now.
This whole, non-commital  
I'll call you when I call
you if I call you thing.
But then I heard her
voice singing his
real real very real
name and I'm
looking at him and wishing
that I could rip out his
lip ring and call him Ben.

i brushed up the shards of a
glass bottle with the broom
of my fingers, surprised when
its skin broke, giving way to
crystalline splinters, and you-
you took your mother's
tweezers and pulled out it's
bits. Band-Aid-ed my wounds,
holding my hand as it quivered
and my lips pulsed. I hated you
in that moment.

For being so tender.

There are stars
in your eyes
where pupils
should be.

There were
stars in your
eyes where
pupils
should be.

he said to me,
he said to she.

he doesn't question my proclivity to absence, he accepts it as he does the width and length
of my mind and
I.

he rears away from the bone
of my hips, fearful of its
ability to puncture
and camouflages his skin
against the bulbs of my
******* and thighs.

he gazes upon me as he would
at a navy sealed sky
not searching for any stars,
not curious of whether an ability
to glow is apparent,
he understands that I am
unapologetically,
seamlessly, an unlit sky
he appreciates my stillness,
my inability to spark.

he accepts my absence
as I accept
my unaligned, navy
complexion.

Being
drunk
feels a lot
like
falling
down.