Virgin Candles and Idle Hands 11.03.98
11.29.03

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Virgin candles the color of tomato juice and
crayons. Whiskey stinging the corners of my
vision, the Cure is a broken bone throbbing
in orgasm, I only miss you. I only
miss me, [us? illeg.] the story of me as a perfect,
the story of me good and held by you.
I will live on your stories. I will live in
moments of glass breaking, lighting
cigarettes and keeping my hands busy
enough not to think. In the third grade I
wore obnoxious lavender mother-of-pearl
glasses to school every day and if you
had only seen them you would have
thought them cool. Why didn’t I know
you then?  ¶ 5:01 AM