i. dusk doesn’t feel like an end to me. gladly, we play hide and seek amongst monuments made in retrospect, and the sun doesn’t make us go home until it’s already past dead. we drop hearts on the unsuspecting, play make-believe in the style of world war ii documentaries your grandfather watches on the history channel. winston churchill played with fire the way we play with matchsticks and death and dying make cameos fit for better actors. your rocking horse isn’t fast enough. nagasaki still stinks of radiation.
ii. we breathe, virtueless, shoes untied and headaches no tylenol can hope to amend. there is money involved, as there usually is, and bills are exchanged from hand to soulless hand, stench of cannabis like perfume in the air. sobriety is elusive–you, effusive–we toast to ambiguity and *** between stoners and sinners. The ****** of yesteryear haunt street corners we use for battleground, though the fights take flight on rusted wings within the confines of our heads, vacancy signs flashing in our pupils. you reek immortal.
iii. colourlessness is inevitable, but you always liked noir films. i play you on first base, set myself against flesh still pink with love bites from december chill, and your lips tell a better story than anything in black and white. we consume–we are all that’s left. we don’t speak english until sunrise and by then we’re telepathic. i don’t need words to say i love you.
iv. we part, gasping for breath without sound in clothes that don’t yet fit us right, doggy paddling because they don’t actually teach you how to swim in high school PE. you’re a cartographer, your hands are maps, and i am left bereft, grasping at substance too thick for breath. i stop breathing, then, and you haven’t held my hand since.