His words are made of bricks of our home. He says my ideas do not meet together. His words are coming together around me like sturdy walls the color of power-steering fluid.
I swallow liquid soap and blow halos into your hair, you see I am alone. You see I will be outside through the night, looking through the stars, a blanket covering my shoulders.
Yes I will come. He says I must build a more perfect archway
I wish I knew less of colors. I wish I could put you together mono-chromatically. Most times plastic breaks fewer bones. Most nights I want to cross the yard and tear the fabric off the height of our arch. When I do, a frail dust comes from the tear. The fabric also bleeds, the fabric also hurts most in the darkness.
