Literature
i.
1. They tell me you had a story once, but sometimes
I find that hard to believe. When you call me now
in the middle of the night, your voice dipped in
panic and uncertainty, you tell me you're dying,
you're drowning, you're burning alive. I comfort you.
But in the morning, I delete your call from my
cell phone, and pretend you never were.
2. Sometimes you're a rain cloud, a crushed cigarette,
the soft glow of light seeping through my blinds.
Sometimes you're my nightmares, but part of me likes
to be afraid. Sometimes you are all I have, the hand
in mine, the lips on my neck, the edge of desire and
comfort and life. Some
