The saintless hold a disdain for history. Unfixed hearts pop and cramp along an axis which circumnavigates the ruin after terrible decisions.

Proximity is better than hope. I miss the stanzas in your hands, your metamorphic knee up from under the table, the warm dune of your thigh…these after we’d killed noon and disrupted a bistro with our fortunate swelter.

I am tattooed to every bed and table and sidewalk that has had us, but our leafy conversations bloomed and died and spun away on a rip current of apologies.