I was in the corridor, sloped and ever-slanting, as the charmed yellow-green walls started to make me puke. It smelled of Lysol and fresh berries in that hall and I cried because I could not be as beautiful as it. It is in your nature to defile things, you encyclopedic bastard, and I know, I know, because I watch you take off your wrinkled shirt that stains of yesterday in the mirror.

As we move to the bed I hear air pass through these walls and you quiet me as you reach towards my bare chest. So pliable, almost, that you could crawl through the gaping hole in it. When your hands reach that place we melt down and slither to a new place I hoped to show you—though the boundaries had fallen so far I wasn’t sure what was my own.

Mankind is unrelenting, yet far too young to say that they know the secrets of the bullfrog tree, the silvery mist, the ghosts, the ghosts, the ghosts. In 1997 there was a rain of arms in my hometown. It cursed me, I’m sure, and my breath turns to white in cold comfort. The pines smell of water and the ridges threaten to cut deeper than rent. So I love it. And thus, I love you.