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.