The foam, it floats on the surface, and the girl,

She fingers glass— “greased the pane”—hovering

So inane, near enough to ever-visions of lift—as

Lovers go: once trapped, under glass, both have

Now lost, are now ever lame—ever bored—ever crass.


It staggers him, thick of throat, over heavy of

Belly with hands— “round”—pushing out, pulling

Him into smoke clouds, over and over into belts he wears,

Wrapped together in shirts—too tight, too real

He should just write on clothes the things he feels.




Nothing matches the blue, underbelly and nursing,

Of love in practice if not used—the better bruised,

The forgotten, the remembered, and newly unknown.


The longest corridors: a trace of a girl’s finger

Dragged over cracks—and boy, he stumbles,

Drinking heavily, lips just as cracked—blistered even

Throwing up whenever it suits him.




A girl’s corridor floor: it warms him more.

She is close. She knows him for what he is.

What he was. What he’ll never be again.


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