My stomach’s empty. It’s my first thought of the day; roll out of bed alone, hope that the news is not too heavy when I check my phone, and that I have eggs at home. The fridge is empty. Thought that I got groceries this week. Guess that the light has changed, and I’m more apt to make excuses since the light has changed, and I’m more likely to feel useless since the light has changed… not that that’s different or strange. While feeling sorry for myself, I change my clothes and drink my health. I go outside. I clean up good. And in the morning, the world is scary, and I feel better than I should. The news is heavy. It’s my first thought of the day. I’ll buy some groceries now. Hope that the world will change in the time it takes to go to town. I’ll make some posters for a protest if the time allows, but don’t wait for the light to change to change your life around… and buy your groceries now. Cause I’ve been searching for something since the light has changed, searching for the time it takes to heal, dying to roll back in bed and disappear.

I have a way of absolving myself of all blame. It’s the way I wake up every morning just the same. Yeah, I say to myself I am not alone, and I say to myself these are not my bones, only reactions to another’s body, please. Please, take my word for it, this is no cause for despair, just the way that my body tenses in your care. Or the way I’m afraid of losing myself or my feelings for you in the process of getting up. Or just the way I’m afraid. But I say to myself these are not my fears. As my body moves backwards, it disappears into reactions to another’s body.

Ostensibly I know your face is not mine, and I know our lips will part (much like our legs). When we are waiting for the storm to break, our fingers fumble finally to their right places. Habituated stubble has no chance to grow. It only spikes up silently. It knows that craving bodies is not just a cut and wet affair. We wed and widow while we wonder were we really there? We dance like we’re not together, throw shade like we’re under the weather. And in the morning we make love without a sound. We talk just like bread and mutter. We kiss, but we stumble and stutter. And if we look at us, we might just knock us down. I know my wordiness escapes me sometimes. By that I mean your lips are soft (but not enough). To hold my comfort or my wonder if I’ll ever have a son like this (it’s unlikely). More likely I’ll be father to some offspring, just enough to hold by comfort (but exhausting), and your body it reminds me of my later years. We twist and tangle tightly, but our paths remain unclear. We left because we left, our tautologies bereft of meaning, meaning our lust was lust, not dusty love. We’d trust enough for feeling up our lusty guts. We swallowed separate souls, spoke our sentences as if we weren’t born with our own brains, as if we’d changed. We took our leave, but our bodies barely rearranged. We laughed, oh how we laughed, our bodies busying themselves with beating thrusts, repeating lust, but reading trust. We took our leave, but our bodies barely readjusted.

Only thirteen, watching the house in the middle of June. Only a boy, caught in the midst of unescapable soon. Drunk first time at seventeen, lying to parents, coming clean, brothers in college, I’m a clean boy, what has come over me? Doing my homework, changing clothes, taking a shower, take a dose, a life turned sour, I’m a clean boy, and no one even knows. I want to leave this boring town (wait for something to come over me). I want to leave this boring house (wait for something to come over me). Daddy’s sick and momma’s out (wait for something to come over me). I want to leave this boring town. And I wonder what would happen (Clean boy you’ve got nothing to do.) Drag the covers over my head (Clean boy, drink a forty or two). Watch the stars, get some grassy action (Clean boy, you could learn something new). Ponder life till we are dead (If you left the house for a few. You’ll die a clean boy and leave everything unsaid). Follow the Hudson to the sea, left New Jersey, now I’m free, won’t be a clean boy for anyone but me.

One more look at my watch. I don’t wanna hold onto time like I do. What time is early? 5, 7, 9, 6, or 2? One more time round the sun. I don’t wanna waste my time lying around in bed. What time is too early? Am I getting old so quickly? I said, have you thought about, have you thought about your future so much you don’t know how to face it? And your coming out looks just how you always pictured: in Detroit with a boy and a steady paycheck. Once more I snooze the alarm. I went to bed early, is this what I get for my dreams? If I lie awake surly, will my watch change to the time that it seems?

At the bottom of the well, wishes, horses, and seashells, arrived at conclusions before they even fell. We’re all looking for relief, sometimes subtle, sometimes brief. We arrive at solutions we cannot always keep. We arrive at the future, no time has passed. And what can we say for the wishing well? And what can I say I remember well? I remember that I dreamed of being a father. I had dreams at seventeen: lawyer, lover, last to leave. The years they recovered, and I uncovered me. Still those dreams at twenty-two, lost their grandeur come untrue. I arrived at the future as though I still loved you. Oh brother, can you help me? I’m running off my mind. I want a family. I want these wishes to reach their conclusion, and how? I don’t know how. This brings me one step closer.

Under water, I can barely even see, not even my hands. Muddled mind and mumbled thoughts, one moment matter. I can barely even breath. God’s in the machine, and my hearts not even there. Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, I can barely even speak. God’s outside the door. There’s no way that even my own mother could react with what I need her for. And we are still speaking, pretending we’re more that animals speaking. God’s outside the door. In other words, the way I move my body just has to do with the way I appear to appear to appear to myself. Or just the way I fear other bodies. Or just the way I fear. Gotta go, gotta bring myself to stand. It’s all in my head. Wonder if I wonder if God’s in my head. Cause I am still learning from all that I’ve said. I’m an animal learning from God in my head.

Why watch the ceiling, if I can watch the way you close your eyes. If I watch the way you close your eyes, then I’ll never watch myself at night. Can’t fall asleep, and yet I am dreaming about the falling skies, the inevitable last goodbye. Yeah, I’ll never fall asleep tonight, but I am waiting for the way we talk of hope in the morning. We’ll joke in the morning. Can’t stop the feeling that we are joking when we say goodbye, that there’s allegory indecisively toying with our inner thighs. Cause when I’m asleep, I’m afraid of my slipping out without my shoes. I would never, like I would never choose to watch the ceiling and not you. Because I am waiting for the sun to warm my back in the morning, I’ll be back in the morning.

A small cut to the forehead. A small slip of the tongue has me down, has me calling names. A short trip to the bathroom. A quick rinse of the face. Put it down. Let me hold this space. A long trip to the dentist. I have holes, did I floss? It’s been too long. Can I have a yoghurt now? I’m in high school, relentlessly undoing all good habits I had tried out for a week. I give up. Can I have my smile back now? Cause I don’t want this frown to be my own. I don’t want these these teeth to speak.

I am a record. I can play myself in reverse. Watch me play scrabble. I always lose badly and curse. I have never changed in this way. One would expect that I’d change expectations as such, only except that I only accept things so much. I will hopefully change by today. But I appear to be trapped inside my eyelids while my body pulses air through the room. Where I am currently, I’m always told how much I should be proud of me. I’m making currency. I’m saving for my future and my family. I am a record, and I know exactly where these words are going to. I’m bound to quote me till my past and future bodies are my bodies too. But I appear to be trapped inside my future, where my body always does what it’s told. Where’d I get these expectations? My mother never told me where to go. Where’d I get these expectations? My mother never told me how to grow.

Twelve steps to the bathroom, and I am a statue. How can I even shed a tear as all this water leaves my body? This moment’s far more out than in, and I can’t seem to fix this situation. There’s nothing left. I’m standing here with my fly down and just a slight erection. It’s just about time to go back to sleep.