we sit under a spotlight. i wrap my legs around like a wry neck. (you gobble it up like a thief.) we mix up the notes like thunder, and the music rides on the coattails of our heartbeats. the sun shines, but we choose an artificial star when we cannot bear to burn our skin.
it is the death of june soon.
i do everything a little predictably, a little backwards. i close a parenthesis without opening one—that is how i take to my digressions. they can be half-moons in the sky keeping tabs on our promises. we laid them all there on the table between us, though sometimes it is hard to see anything at all.