dirty sheet runaways

whiskey in the morning makes me more pensive than i need to be, perhaps, adding to the confusion of writing letters to no-longer-lovers who i still love more than i know how to put correctly into words. the precisions of our affections spelled out in true but less perilous ways.

after three days away from my bike today i rode fast, faster than the cold or the wind or my nostalgia-seeking eyelids.

consent is a hot topic these days; it keeps coming up. circles under his eyes, and twang missing from my throat.

don't be ashamed.

i dreamed that we found a car and drove till it ran out of gas, pushed it to the side of the road and took off walking down that highway through the desert towards whatever nothing-town we could find. i thought about it while i spun poi in the park under crisp autumn trees, remembering the one who wrote asking me to run away with him to some anonymous motel where we'd fuck all night and sleep all day and leave only for cigarettes and junk food from the gas station across the parking lot. "It's a certain kind of love story and we're a certain kind of people" and i think he was right but what happens when my story involves different kinds, too?

you are fraught with exactly what i don't want to hear.