For G. H.



The secondhand smoke on your old hoodie
is tendrils of disembodied electricity
mercilessly carving through my diaphragm.
Somehow, I envision ivy climbing the side of an
abandoned house in unkempt droves of static
veins… My throat is cruel in the way that it seeks
you, like in the way squatters seek warmth behind
boarded doors that won’t easily open up.
If we ever kissed, I imagine them dwelling both of
our atriums and airways simultaneously,
and zero degree weather would use our breath
to leave crudely written IOU’s on the only
window still intact. I’d think an angry ghost would
appear, and remind us why we’re there in the first
place. Even then, I’d still like to believe
you’d give me a light all the same.



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