and one would think that i could bust outta this joint, armed with my disease. spread a night quilt kiss across the wavelength of mountains and valleys that take up so much space in my nest of synapses. make everything thunder silent like a spyplane flying low over uninhabited hillsides. instead, the perfect skipping-rock slides down the length of my throat as i breathe the proper latin names of the trees that i'd rather be hung upon.

savor the taste of salt from the tear pooling in the corner of your mouth. it's all that's left of this boy now.