I have come to that one place where we can't divine our bodies.

We can't say exactly what we mean, so we let the hand-carved

coffins spook us a little more. The thin pane of fire aloft the warm

of the dark. I told you about the fields wrinkling into a fling of crows.

What is this great desire to always prove something wrong?

What do we have buried underneath those grainy faces in old

photographs. The first time we hunted for deers, you told me this

was your idea of heaven if the days didn't disperse into nights.

And I ask you about that story; the one where you tell me you love

something, but are too kind to let them linger. So you rummage

the nook of your heart for the will to let them go. You count the

windows of your teeth with your tongue— and tonight, there is a music

sitting on your wrist. Diabetic, like a keepsake. Pain demanding

to be felt. Eventually, the mask wears off, and we see the butterfly

nestled there in. The vulnerable thing not pimped enough into a

shouldering darkness. The boreal whiteness that is the canvas

of your untitled world. And sometimes I find myself trying to

understand you, the balding cry rhythmic from your chest to the

wooden floorboard of your vanishing. The hysterical illusion of

a much-loved happy boy chased by a hell-eyed dog into the shack.

I imagine many things. I imagine just how two people become so

co-dependent of themselves like the fugue and the fingers—

All these broken emotions, all these useless shoes, our body parts

cauled in oil and blood, the eyesore beam of the unknown coursing through

our veins for all we hate and learn to love at the same time, it has

a name. The origin of all things and everything starting with emptiness.