a boy from oklahoma writes me confessions of acts he’s never committed. he requests no responses unless its to fess up to my own actions. i stopped writing after the first few. such redundancy on my part. my body, existing.

on fridays tanya calls me while i sleep so when i answer the phone i sound like milk. tanya says her sheets are full of snow, that the boy in her bed smells like cedar & fur.

every night i walk through the lit streets of my neighborhood, watching the porch lights snuff one by one, the shadows of bodies shifting, imagining conversations that almost always end in frustration.

stillness cloys. rub my feet across the floor for friction; apartment taut with want. at night, the neighborhood's bugs slink between my floorboards, their hiss fills the rooms full. when morning comes, the apartment's silent & a dead moth's stuck to my chest..