I go where I can come back. Here likely is my least favorite word. Soliloquies are full of beer, a brim
moans about strawberries in my mouth. I don’t when I know to get out.
When I believed I barely needed the internet, I did not think of your hands as boxer folders. Several
states away grew into hushed flushes & four forms of letters. We moved into each other so I moved to
you. I stood in front of the Washington Monument feeling like less of a dick. The yuppie pool on your
parent’s street was an opportunity to sit on your shoulders kicking up water. The showers after were
exhausted muscles, soapy giving. Then we’re living up three flights with sounds from all sides. Next I
keep going, waxing an inexhaustible candle. I say something like we’re off being where we are now.