i. we plateaued in the middle of the night in oregon. the car was working okay but you were losing steam.
meanwhile the love of my life sat by a riverbed in california.
ii. you’re probably reading this by accident
the boy i love is an art piece, a flat weave textile
we keep the light on late and spill wax and my feet hurt and you peel me like a blood orange
this is how the knowing happens.
the i-can-see-you even in the dark
you reach deep down
come up with nothing.
iii. this girl in my class has never seen anyone in their underwear.
iv. i am my mother’s flesh and blood, i’m witchy california and obsessive and compulsive. i’m unraveling myself on his papaya-printed sheets.
iii. if i could tell her what it’s like i’d explain staring at the ceiling for hours on end. your boxers and my handprints. our tiny resistances, the way you set down the mug of tea, the way i can take sips without asking. your exhaustion to my wakefulness, your nails to my back, the way you hold on and then let go.
v. there are so many constellations, he said. there are galaxies uncurling while we take catnaps and get high. i said that you’re so beautiful it puts stars in my eyes and oceans in my fingertips. i can’t leave i can’t leave i can’t leave. gone but my hip still hurts.
iii. if i could tell her what it’s like i’d let her read the letters and say that he was so sweet it made me disintegrate. that it wore down my viscera.
if i could tell her what it’s like i’d tear everything up and talk about nebulas
let my coffee brew too strong
and then wipe away the acidity.