songs you've ruined for me:
motorcycle drive by
transatlanticism
darlin'
baby i'm yours

my wrist is bleeding under saran wrap and now you are a scar, a scar cut with needles and forged with ink and there, right there, i can see you any time i'd like. you are the only clear story on my body but when i try to say it out loud the words get jumbled, time rearranges itself, we are endless like the dunes upon which we rest our tired heads, the grains of sand underneath weaving their way into pockets like forgotten corridors ready to earn some flier miles. they're an anecdote we'll tell later when we're reciting partial truths. this week will disappear under noncommital phrases about parasailing, we'll talk about the scenery, we won't talk about salt on your skin or my skin or your hand in mine or how you wear me on your shoulder now, where i pressed my forehead when you were on my handlebars. i want it. i want an endless summer, weaving down the center of deserted streets, hiding from the heat. i think of those hot july nights when the a/c freezes up. i want you in my lap, want to taste you on my tongue, your sweat like seawater. what a pleasure it would be to drown.