there are moments with you, and moreover, tiny moments within moments, and so forth, when it feels impossible to be any closer to you than the cigarette between index and rebuttal. [it should be saying a lot(but it's not)] like on those southern nights when honey stained our lips and lives and judgment; they showed up in the back of a police car, armed with a deadly arsenal of threats as empty as the bottle of whiskey in the corner. they left, and we delivered, before the state could sweep ash away into the dustpan of a foster home and furthermore into the wastebasket or dumpster of the so-called effectively efficient system. we caught some air mixed in with the paper souls betwixt index and profane, and discussed past lusts and loves and losses and the insanity of the preceeding few days while the accompanying ebb of breath and flow of fire beat gently on our consciences.
the new year; i never thought i'd make it here, *and neither did you.