the unraveling

write me stories

of us

and i’ll read them to you before bed

by candlelight while the snowstorm frosts everything in sight.

write me stories

of us,

of the dream i never thought would be real

of two girls, two gays, two wide-mouthed losers.

write me stories

for you are my favorite author

and i await every word you type

in my favorite font.

write me stories

and end them all with “et cetera”

end them all with a french phrase i don’t know how to pronounce

and i’ll know what you mean nonetheless

let me write you stories, my love

tales of two girls who saved each other

from roofs and open windows

from mothers and callous metaphorical women

let me tell you of our future

for i am a prophet.

for you and me, my retinas see...glory. agonizing glory.

my eyes see empty bowls of spaghetti

and black and white maid costumes

and unpopped popcorn kernels

and roboto, serif headings of roboto

and glasses of lukewarm tap water

and boxes on porches

and hickies and stolen, midnight neck kisses

and bitten off fingernails

and empty kleenex boxes

and the chair from our therapists’ offices

and 32GB flashdrives

and new york time best sellers

and fame

and torture

and agonizing glory.

my retinas see a world where you and i

can live in peace

without the grasp of lemyn o’mania.

without the grasp of amnesia.

let me take care of you

tuck you underneath your red and yellow covers

kiss your forehead and tell you i love you

while the world caves in outside.

let me adore you

admiring every pixel of your face

and every laugh, and every giggle

in awe of your effortless grace i know you deny.

let me write to you

just a little while longer

for i do not know romance

but i am

The Author.