What is Said
My hands, two balls of hair
trapped in the throat of a feline ghost
My fingers, covered
by your two-week beard.
I want to be a Polaroid snapshot
of a sunset. I’ll call it: selfie # 569
while I die.
You told me your girlfriend got jealous.
She does not know that friends
can love each other
or that we tattooed death our arms,
and we gave each other stones,
and the river took our useless haiku;
that is, the filth of the city
devoured by Godzilla.
I told you, I would paint my nails red
to hide the blood I always carry on my hands
when I touch something and it breaks,
when I miss you when I search for you
and end up feeling alone.
When I cry inside and rot.