I snuck into a room I wasn’t meant to use. He turned around and we talked about swimming. Bodies in water, wriggling about. He told me ’bout wild days and nights at posh school. He sold soft drugs wearing fine wool. This neat Italian man.
Do you want to? he asked from under his long lashes, coy, like a woman is meant to be.
In Italy, he didn’t translate. I struggled in sound for days. I stared at his parents and they at me. They were kind but he, he left me in woods. Cycled off, singing.
One cannot have cappucino past breakfast.
Buy me cigarettes but not while wearing that.
I got to see the fireflies, though, and buildings holding hands.
Boby o Boby
I love you, Boby said, on the top floor of a drafty Victorian house. The duvet cover was the most beautiful orange, and the sheet was sky blue. Did it matter? We were in the dark! The top floor and close to the sky, the window open. Possibly, it smelled of summer.
The house of happiness, Bark said, when we planned to move in after he’d moved out. Everyone here has been unusually happy.
But then, everyone loves you.
Easter morning. Who was I waking up with in the field? When I decided God didn’t need to exist. Misty meadows, no shit. The bells tolled, they did. The most beautiful morning for logic.