I. Open parenthesis. This body: postscript, barco of loneliness. This spine: a dozen cupped palms, waiting. Fold me nine hundred and ninety-nine paper cranes. I will lay my head on the shrine of our almost. I will let blackberries bloom at the tips of my fingers. Look at me with that fisheye mouth, everything open, then leave. In that hoodie, those scuffed canvas shoes. Drag your sensible gray luggage onboard, pop in the earbuds, the Sinatra, ask the tired flight attendant for a cup of water. Drink. Look out of the papercut window, and watch Chicago’s glittering blood slip downstream. |
Do not think of me. II. In one of the deleted scenes, we press our backs against scratchy orange floral carpet and stargaze at the ceiling. Cherubs drift and lilt above our heads, dizzying eggshell blue, blue, blue, This is a fan favorite. III. Dear yesterday, Dear almost, Dear , Find my ghost in Hotel California, spinning under a million chandeliers of open mouths. |