i want to set fires and smash clocks and share the apocalypse with someone beautiful and scarred who i need more than water.
i want to hear the language of shooting stars.
i want to become more than a product of social conduct, self-discipline, distractions and obligations in a place where no one's a traitor and no one's a martyr and the harbor is alight with burning ships and the air is so cold that shears through my lung tissue and there is nothing in this world more important than the feeling of his hand in mine and the sound of our feet hitting the pavement.
the lifespan of a time frame from lovers jumping off a sixteen-story parking garage.
the visceral desperation of pulling entrails out of a live body with your bare hands.
the deep desire to stand up in the middle of that lecture hall and scream until your body breaks at the seams.
no matter how hard i grip the pages or how loudly i read the text i can never force my figure to dissolve into fiction.