I want to swear that this isn’t the season.
here we go. a hundred.
these fingers are full but I’ll give you my eyes.
these knees bristle against the undergrowth
but I’ll crouch until the cobwebs move.
remember that I told you
you were my best friend?
eighteen shoves itself into an hour
what did I listen to before I’d heard your voice
and a 1
2 3 4
and I won
another spiny door
I’ll mail you a package of handlebars
Remember that time you wrote my death scene
When I almost cried at the depiction of you mourning