i am in love with writers and i want to kiss their full mouths their full mouths and their empty hands and the ***** in their fingers and the veins that shiver when you touch them and the wide eyes and their throats teeming with eclectic nothingness. they are so much something they are really something and if you were to stroke their hair in bed at night would they look at you like you are a metaphor? i am a writer and i don’t even know. (but i love every inch of every unknowing and i just want to unknow everything.) they make their thoughts ashes in the pavement where their best friends committed arson—and when i buy their books i hope they hear my feet whispering in the halls of a whitewashed landscape, the way i tiptoe into their open pages and stay there, burrowing in like glass shards in the beach sand.

i am in love with writers and i think that is why i am now a writer. i am trying to spindle myself into their bereft palms, and watch the way they emblazon themselves into lightning—slowly, slowly, until i meet them in the eye of a distant storm, and we share a swig from a silver flask, all the while whistling to each other, “god, i can’t even write."