i caved

i'm speaking of the sort of boy
that's not nearly a man
   
"what are you?" the sky asked questions and laid eggs in flowered trees. he touched the ground and it crumbled wetness onto his cuticles. he hated being undeserving. hated the way his fingerprints were broken in two, thinking, maybe we were alive once.
           
maybe, one day a long time ago we were all so alive that our cheeks sang songs, and our eyes were more colors than one. we planted flowers everywhere the sun shone and sometimes they blossomed into animals with golden coats and translucent pink wings.

his name was two-syllables that seemed to trip over one another.

it didn't matter. foreign countries tasted red, and my voice was made of cracked thyroids while he was burnt honey.

dear romance life, and whatever lies in between,

you remind me of a merry-go-round in a place where the elderly let children lick the water beads off of the beers in their coolers. where the paint is cracked and brown like the insides of your eyes.

         

     
     
     
   


and the grass in his yard still smelled of alcohol.