Your painted nails’ tired typing
or notes littering the classroom floor,
our laughter spilling over ourselves
and into


my low, steady sighs, the slow inhale and exhale


of Monday morning coffee, coconut water


choking on tachycardia and swallowing silence.
Glamour of grit and grunge
(lids sewing themselves shut),
rolled eyes and half-smiles,


my straightened spine heavy with knots tied


irreversibly, like jam stirred into rice pudding.


When the glass shattered and the wheels slid
into oblivion, yours
was the first number I dialed.
Only your eyes have seen



through locked doors at midnight, silver scissors



slicing straight lines into walls weathered with



sweat-drenched July and pale November.
Charcoal and paint dripping
onto claustrophobic carpet
clothed in socks, shirts, stray
drawings and assignments.



Lucid dreams of lost loves and floating



through nebulae; nights stripped bone-dry



stark like florescent lighting.
Punk rock mixtapes melted
into reggae and ruined with
apple juice. You don’t care



about hands folding hair-ends or Judas clones;



instead we look to April pink, rain-slick leaves,



eyes smiling over Italian ice



even when our mouths cannot.