What is Said
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.