don’t get me wrong (he never does)—
it’s not that his blood was some kind of
fuse, some sanguine gasoline on my
fire. if you knew me like he did you would
know that i had already been burning. nor
was it some blanket that smothered me.
instead i saw his chalkboard knuckles
and the absent purse of his lips. i didn’t
mean anything by it, looking at him that
way, like i didn’t want to
crane my neck to see the crown of his
head. no, i don’t know how he gets
his hair like that. all i know is that he’s
settled into something big enough
for the two of us, him and his run-up
and my jump, his block and my
spike. it’s always my spike, cleaving
through him, whether i mean
it or not. it’s always him letting me in,
surface of unrippled lake. one day
i saw him in the middle of a storm and
i grieved for him and you know
the rest of the story: neither
of us has ever been the same since.
tony's minisite <3 