Photography by Chanel Irvine
we laugh in our rummage sale kitchen
flat soda water mixed with room temperature despair
are we lost?
who asked that —
you say, it’s not a question; the question would be “who didn’t?”
sometimes i think about kissing you — not like a fantasy
i just think about holding your face, tender. stroking the part of your ear that curls like the beach near my house. my old house.
maybe i am lost.
later on you’ve complimented my hair; possibly for infinity: but
there’s not enough time to be anywhere
else. right now is too fierce.
you step over the splinter floorboard to come outside, kind of shinning like a madonna
i don’t particularly know what a madonna would look like — we must all have our own madonnas
the night has already ended,
but it was never meant to come; not Tuesday.
i roll you one
because you sat down —
and i don’t attempt to find the lighter not just yet. i can hold it here for a moment, toe-tapping;
you haven’t refused
and you (this) makes me think of golden
light; filling me; rusting me. away.