Thursday, October 11, 2012


tiebreak inning.

like last night. our hearts bump against our tongues.

Machado is up.I pick up dropped apple slices, slide them between my lips. Chinese lanterns are stark, striking, against brown clay. A fake squirrel sits on the windowsill.

our feet are bumped together; back when we wore sandals. it's colder now, but the grass still green. the trees less so. 

He has flown to Madrid. I met him there, days late, faces bright-- mine from the wind. His because there was brightness in him.

After he left a bird pooped on me by the fountain. I let myself feel the injustice; like gravel scraping my esophagus; I relished it. I missed him terribly but the Lebanese man wanted to dance. He wanted to fuck me, among the pillars. I walked with him for an hour, then went by myself to buy chocolate and churros. I spent a lonely day in the park and walked back to the hostel.

He chews gum so big his mouth must be stuck that way. It's a superstition in baseball, like sunflower seeds and cartoon faces. Meanwhile he eats Mentos with his head on my arm; there are bicycle tires beside the couch; an empty carton of yogurt sits upside down on the coffee table.

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