she said: love the boy who paints.

And I think of your hands.
Your hands with fingers
like Grecian pillars stretching
across the divot between my
hip bone and my bellybutton
your palms that were shockingly
dry but extraordinarily smooth
cupped around my *******
while you slept, a single
foot peeking through my
calves, your sweat seeping
through my cotton shirt
a drawn out


b

r

e

a

t

h




So, love a boy who paints
and think of his hands
the only things that you
can remember vividly
all the things he did
with those fingers
during The Kids
are Alright

but

it's not your
oil on his skin
anymore
and someone else
loves that boy who
paints.

If we're singing this
same same song
then who's playing
along

I'm at work on my day
off, drinking Toddy and
watching the spokes on
the city commuter bikes
glint in the windows
it's so weird to want
to be everywhere and
then nowhere, because
everywhere and nowhere
require the right kind of people
so when my mom asks if I want
to see a movie, if I want to go to
the gorge, if I want to go thrift shopping
I tell her that I am restless, that in 1909
subatomic particles were fired at a
solid object and passed through
that humans could possibly
vibrate fast enough to
travel through time
but might end
up liquifying
themselves
but that the
atoms in my
bones are
firing so
fast they
appear to
be not
moving?



but that doesn't make a ton of sense
so I tell her I am a little restless.
a little restless.
rest.
less.