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Jan 2015
so we ride. on the back of things, on the side of the things, on the subway, on the seats with no cushions in your car. that flash flood. thundered silently with no sound. I ride on your back, twisting your spine like a can opener. always on the edge of things, you. you who run round the roads, through forests unpaved. reminds me of that movie: birds cross above your chest as you heave through dead leaves, dying leaves, dying sun, but only for right now. you don’t run anymore,though i wonder the sounds you heard then (other than your heart beating). your heart beats differently now than before, in your temples. you pray in your temples, in your cortex, in your brain sending nerves to your knuckles. chapped lips, chapped words, chapped knuckles. kissed between the mini valleys of your finger’s rooftops. thought the ceiling collapsed from punch, not fruit, but punches on pavement. no skeletons in the closet except for a hole in the wall. we fell into it.
kt mccurdy
Written by
kt mccurdy  NY
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