sticky fingers.

and now that you've left i just drink bottle after bottle of that pink wine you hate, cut out stencils of rabbits and carrots to spray around this painted city, ride my bike upriver, against the wind, until my fingers are too numb to move. (there is a comfort, too, in these recollections of my solitary self.)

the secret lies in fingers, and in toes.

all i want is to keep falling into the same armchair as you, hips twisted sideways and feet on knees. i want fake eyelashes so i can flutter them and send out warm teasing breezes, when i feel this perishingly full of love for this whole weird beautiful world.

when we paw through dirty piles of treasures at the flea market the harmonicas keep jumping out. when we slip on icy staircases it just means a better view of the sky.

(the air in this room is humming as if yr fingers had just left the strings.)