here, the AC blares cold on my hunched posture
the prayer flags dry on paper towels on the floor
mazzy sings me not to feel too good at a time
who trusts good all the time? nice is this vague word
i am eating like an orange, the edge of the peel of nice
stinging the outside of my lip.
memory number eight is my legs kicking the cement wall at the graveyard
from my perch. Nuzzling the pebbled concrete nostalgically
not a moment too soon for sentimental– I still know
how edgy i was between gasping moonlit adoration
how you took the opportunity to flick the worry from my face
with a soft, fastidious fingertip.
all of my love is swimming with determination
I want to scold my heart: drown! wave! something!
but she seems to know where this is.