so,

i know pretty bikes are like pretty women, they come and go. and i know that women, they will come and they will go. and i know players only love you when they're playing. and i know thunder only happens when it's raining. and i know it's 8:06 p.m. but what about men? BOYFRIEND. it's all muddy, muddled, dirty. what about, uh, that small hole in the wall with a tooth wrapped in canvas hidden inside? the size of an index finger. here your lungs fill with cotton. here your heart is small. what about the small unboned rabbit skinned and rotting on a plate next to the bed? what about how the night always releases a chill and the city lights always look better out the window when drunk? what if it stays the same, the shivers are still there in the morning and the moles make constellations along the subtle curves of the skin of the back and the city still limns along the horizon just as pretty in the soft light of morning? oh, i suppose consummation always debones the phantasmagoria. what if the first jump is never enough? but every jump after could never be as good. if it isn't done right the first time? i suppose i may never be satiated with what i have. aspiration, 'til death do us part. or is that respiration, or both, oh. i thought he had a gun; i thought this is what we were supposed to do; i thought we both wanted it to be a small folded piece of the blustery night that would never unfold in the same way we closed it; i thought there was someone in the backseat; i thought we were supposed to die right then, right there; i thought we would never whisper like that, but we made it. we made it. here your heart is small. here you spiral, constantly alone, ever and cyclical and ever and ever. i suppose i may always hope for something better. is it too much to be content with the current rush? oh. i suppose maybe is a better word than perhaps. the future is always blanker than the past. but sometimes things are so much like myopia, so speckled and bespeckled and the mind just keeps running back to that one thing, that one moment. oh. oh. morning flowers are always better in retrospect, bulb to blossom, that little fire on divison street. and oh.