say burning bush, say you don't
forgive me. what do you
mean, just friends? if that's what god intended as 
platonomy I don't think I want to 
meet him. 

I don't know 
why but there's something peculiar in how the minute your sister wasn't 
around we discovered how 
neatly my fingers fit into
yours. as everyone 
knows by now, what happens back 
stage stays back
stage and the walls still whisper of what we 
saw in each other's 
eyes right before we
fell into each other. I'm going to
burn for wishing I'd used my
mouth. 

I fit over his
hips like they were made for
me but maybe things are meant to be
asymmetrical, like the way the strings of your
hoodie are always
askew. maybe god finds
calm in violence, maybe he does this 
stuff so we don't forget how it
hurts. 

touching you means an
explosion and I wish they'd see it as bright
colours instead of just a loud
noise, because you, I think 
I could love
you.