You are drinking yourself red-eyed and crumpled on an unmade bed meanwhile I am hating the world’s promiscuity and signing autographs that serve no alternate purpose subsequent to their ink-blotted conceptions and silently my heart scratches and claws and penetrates bone, muscle, and choked fat to get to you
How will we know when we’re no longer young enough to inconsequentially rot our bodies from the inside out?
If I could I would search for a space impenetrable by ants molecules and medium-sized atoms that exists between my pale finger tips and your freckled bare back moving slowly up and down
If I could I would be somewhere where nothing is the tarnished byproduct of anything where no one will remind anyone not to clog their throats or minds or eyes when they shiver and choke on scarlet inkblots and chug gasoline and wipe away dirt stains and drink each other’s shame and form cuts on the soles of their feet after rushing barefoot through beds of sharp stones to reach other