I steal the blanket on warm or cold nights with no regrets.
I’m a good kisser, but probably much worse in bed than
I believe. I wish you would believe in God. Stranger,
the air pressure is lower next to skyscrapers. When you leap
off, the building ***** you back and slams your body
against it. Again and again. My grandfather’s safe stands hidden,
built into an end-table at my brothers house. I have always wanted
to open it. A friend I once loved wants to swim naked with me
in three of the five great lakes. I want to take her down the west coast
on a motorcycle. If I could afford it, I would only wear underwear
made from bamboo plants. Both soft and eco-friendly. Green ones.
In 2004, I stopped talking to a girl I kissed. Second kiss. The
last time I saw her was during a fire-drill on Halloween.
She was wearing a cat-costume. Black. Please come find me.
We danced when younger. My legs swung wildly
beneath my knees. The scuffs on my shoes always remind me.
There is a photograph in my mother’s house of me flying
through the air on a skateboard. My mother was so scared
and proud in those moments. We still don’t get along.
I am not strong enough to tie my feet to science and jump.
In the moments of falling, I need God. I know I would fall
too fast to cross myself. The truth is, at the end of the night,
I am always afraid. I hold the pillow at different angles to feel better.
I make different shapes. Some nights I don’t sleep at all.