it occurred to me last night while i was waiting for the train- it's been since the 10th of last november that i've kept my arms clean.
and i think this could be growing up, growing old, growing better- but i have never forgotten the memories of years spent sinking into that sticky black couch with the duct-taped corners. you eased the needle under my skin like you were lowering your body into me, so careful, so slowly, a heartbreaking magnet into my veins. and my skin was paper; your arms were summer; the carpet spun gold for miles to oz, and someone greater than god cradled me and crooned promises of infinity. we spent those hot summer nights sweating against each other, sticking skin-to-skin with your mouth pouring smoke between my lips or tracing patterns on my bones or stretching the syllables of my name for hours, days, years.