The Amstel. Christ.
Kilner jars full of fireflies
     on redbrick windowsills.
Hormone therapy. Jesus.
Angel boys from Europe
     trailing around behind me wondering -
and not caring - what the hell is in my pants.
Cold morning breezes
     on scarred chest tissue and needle puncture marks.
Rows and rows of bicycles
     and a fluttering pink scarf in the wind.
Roaring screams and sexless smiles
     cold split knuckles and nonchalant breath.

lie on my lap again,
spinning stories in the daytime
hours pass, doing nothing
except basking in syllables,  
their threads hanging in the air

if you would be so kind,
let me spin them into floss strands,
winding them onto a wooden stick
a snack to save for later,
for when i miss the taste of your thoughts

let me turn the look in your eyes
into Love Hearts,
small enough to hold in my hand
contemplating, just before
rolling it around my tongue,
for when you’ve fallen asleep before me.

can i bottle your brain,
place in into a kilner jar
watch it bubble up,
effervescent, pink lemonade
sweetness cutting through the bitter
something to sip on
for when I’m uninspired, again.