Leaving Times

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

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