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