Eleven days into April I threw on an emerald vest with the warm woolen center. I don’t have gloves on my body. I don’t even own those hip knit gloves with the finger holes. What happened to the spring we once knew? Lavender and full of flowers. Two days into May a year ago the New Whitney opened up to the paparazzi of opaque robin and I got drunk from a clear plastic bottle clearly full of ***** at their kickoff public block party. Nobody tried to stop me. Probably because I’m pretty. A DJ played techno beats thick enough to indulge the vast street. I danced alone on steal blue cobblestone with red-pigmented toes. My flushed eye caught colors of something that made me imagine van Gogh and did it hurt? To chop off his ear? Where would he put the fallen flowers if he picked them up?

Free drinks?
Yes, please

Passed out in the grass on the backbone of noon, I swallowed his tongue and tasted every forsythia he’s ever eaten. Maybe I was just dreaming. I recall catching a cab with my best friend because we were too wasted to make it on foot. Taxi wind whipping our hair into a tunnel. Heavy letters unopened on the kitchen table. Cherry blossoms covered the cracked leather and they smelled so much like your backyard. I’m probably dozing off to sleep.
How is it I can only see you when my concrete lids finally meet?