nearly five years ago he asked if i liked to lose myself in the middle of some certain fervor; cut to a subway jump and a hitch in my breath and today burns as bright as tomorrow once did on the undersides of my tired eyelids there wasn’t much to remember i am always thinking the best of the worst elements and wishing what served me then would be enough today. the parity of the two cats i shared beds and men with over the course of a year were stronger metaphors than their love what conceit can we come up with to fossilize frisson, to preserve the feeling of maybe it will be good so it will last against the hard sun of age and the unfair twist of grief which rings our bedroom like a coffee stain, like a black slug, impermeable as your breath
roughly five years ago he asked if i liked to lose myself to the indescribable fervor; cut to the subway jump, a skip in my breath and today burns as bright as tomorrow once did on the undersides of my tired eyelids i’m tired of remembering, i am always thinking the best of the worst elements and wishing what served me then would be enough today; with two cats i shared beds and men for weeks and months, a stronger metaphor than their love what conceit can we come up with to fossilize frisson, to preserve the feeling of maybe it will be good so it will last against the hard sun of age the precipitation of pain, the inevitability of entropy but the grip of grief rings our bedroom like a coffee stain, a black slug, impermeable as your breath
i like to lose myself to the fervor. cut to the subway jump, a skip in my breath, and today burns as bright as tomorrow once did on the undersides of my tired eyelids always imagining the best of the worst elements and wishing what served me then would be enough today, with two cats i shared beds and men and a calendar year, the discarded days a stronger metaphor than their love what conceit can we come up with to fossilize frisson, to preserve the feeling of maybe it will be good so it will last against the hard sun of age the precipitation of pain, regular old entropy, but the low fog of grief rings our bedroom like a coffee stain, a black slug, impermeable as the breath in your throat.
i like to lose myself to the fervor. cut to the subway jump and my breath skips because today burns as bright as
tomorrow once did on the undersides of my tired eyes. it’s been a while since i tried to recall the best of the worst
that came before, but still i catch myself wishing that what served me then might be enough today. with two cats
i shared beds and men and a calendar year, the discarded days a metaphor more lasting than our love. what
conceit can we conjure to fossilize frisson, to preserve the feeling of maybe it will be good so it will last against the
hard sun of age and the precipitation of pain, of regular old entropy whisking us into the past.
and yet the low fog of grief rings our bedroom like a coffee stain, a black slug, impermeable as the breath in
your chest.