old love songs crackle through the radio and dreams crackle through the mind. like thousands of tiny hands punching the back of eyes until they are forced to cry.
remember.
a ripped dress. a skinned knee.
blood on the floor and a struggle over peroxide.
messages you only read in the morning. if only you had found them.
.
messages you only read at night. remind you.
tomorrow it's black coffee for two.
and you haven't ridden that bicycle since.

eyes peer out from around the corner. fists pound on ceramic doors and you escape out the window.
a note taped to the icebox. containing a very important map. point A to objective B.
you didn't get far. in the smoke shop below the apartment. drinking the coffee meant for distinguishing cigarettes. that explains that addiction. this happens every tuesday. you hide to be seek-ed.

on the floor.
there are spiraled telephone cords. from a phone that never worked.
spiders. that were named after you.
leather. that wraps and locks.
brown paper bags and saddle shoes. from school girl memories.
rabbit fur. where there are no rabbits.
chili leaves. in the dead of winter.
and sense memory. of head to hardwood. flashes of light. and waking up to nothing.

and then you switched. to the other line. to speak to that opera singer. surrounded in brick walls. the electric line took your thoughts away.
standing and extra 4 inches high. dropping fur to the floor. exposing tattoos of desert snakes and paragraphs in french.
listening to letters. holding letters. hoarding letters. in the deep rabbit skinned pockets.
crushed as a result of hourly fists and anxiety.
'tell me i am next'.

10.2 hours until landing. 2 and 1/4 bottles of emergency wine left. 27 letters to be delivered by carrier pigeon.
wake up to the amazon river and 723 minutes later count arctic stars. recording them on page 13 of a travel journal abandoned 12 pages ago. finish the 1 book brought along for the 22nd time.
10 hours until landing. wonder if she will remember.

outline every crease of skin. draw internal bones externally. because you want that exoskeleton.
don't be jealous of beetles.
as silent sound waves pulse through white cords filling heads with distractions. wings form under rib cocoons. snap bones. break skin. dry out. learn to fly.
burn up. fall down.
erase the outlines.

"fuck fate"
he said. then immediately went back to appraising old furniture.
too obvious. but book dedications and lyric renditions mean too much. walking over bridges with skipping records in the background.
"it's too obvious"
she wrote. and slowly went back to staring at the ceiling.
not obvious enough. but sideway glances and jars filled with dead baby sharks. just explain everything. sailing under bridges with whales and old broken bottles.