Something about the light. Something about the dollar store jewelry and the way the strangers worked as scenery. Something about that fearless commotion, and the way the rain waited to fall just for us. There’s no excuse for another sort of summer.

Now it’s the dull ache of a hangover and the same impulse (control) impulse (control) of the last time: all I want to do is burn the body that’s betrayed me, cutting those commandments into skin. We’ll work together here, here, here, here. Your time and space are your own; your mechanisms are mine. And, despite the living heart, the specimen writhing in a jar, the sun consumes us as one.

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