1. The collisions of sweet-hearted bodies against mine result in a round sound, the deep clap of something solid hitting something hollow. Palm on drum. Heel on marble. Knife on glass. There’s a toast.

2. My ribcage got cored like an apple, its gorey pulp trampled underfoot by the invisible men and spectacular women of Benefit Street. My ribcage got cored like an apple and all its star-shaped constellations of seeds got cracked. This is what my darling means when she says “blood from a stone.”

3. A stranger asked me once if my insides got plastered on my outside. Like my body was a canvass, or like his wasn’t. Like my blood and guts were his gesso. My darling has gruesome acrylic splatters all over the better part of her clothes and body.

4. K. asks, and I say the would-bes are distant. She asks again, “distant from what?” The question is its own answer. Just distant.

5. Just distant.

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