6/12/24

6/12/24

I am writing on a screen made of lost words and the day is Wednesday (I’m usually off on Wednesdays) / The hair on my shins is tickling me out of every trance (the ones that happen inevitably every fourteen minutes or so) and I have never been so in love with the life I am living (I love you) / I could be anywhere outside of these walls but I could never be without the breakage they leave behind / Little flames of devotion keep our shelves lit through the night (we’re both scared of the dark) (I love you) / I’ll tell you the debris is something my mother gave us so we can stay here until sunrise / but your hands tell me you will not be the one to pick it up (we can leave all of this behind us) / Outside is warm enough without glass-trapped intimacy a fingertip’s length away– what does it mean to be envious of her transparency? / What does it mean to be furious that mine is smudged with black ink, tarnished with oil and grease? / There are a thousand writers in my grave not yet dug and each and every one of them is begging for your love (I love you).

— ODH