is what it could be. Dancing half-naked to forgotten music, an intoxicated figure approaches. We cast invisible cellophane curtains; the rising temperature replaces possible caresses. This is perhaps an insulated thought.
i run down the stairs and lie on a graveled road. It is hot, but the dirty floor is cold to the touch. The pebbles make their nests in my skin, and i do not notice.
Pressed against the cracks of a couch, i wake with a deep line traversing the back of my hand.
Told by elders that we were brother and sister. Fireworks shot in the sky during a smoke (with the wastebins) on the balcony at an LP bar. It could have been romantic. Fusion Japanese taco restaurants that actually just had takoyaki. Walking from palm tree to palm tree because of the scorching sun. Walking from restaurant to restaurant because each one was closed. Tapping a tuning fork to the softest part of one's skin to no effect. Fish that tastes like funky cheese. Almost losing my keyboard and going over the possibility that I would have to buy new rosin, a new reverb pedal, and ultimately a new keyboard: I was ready for the loss that never happened. All the while, he hums Chopin's second nocturne and wishes for the day that he could see his wizened face in the mirror. The details. Do these moments amount to anything? I just want to remember.
