because I think I prefer photographs with blurred edges and their soft tinny focus and the air ringing like copper as they are greeted. I desire the weight of invisibility and the decadent beauty it strings behind, like faded and bent cans. I should like to identify the stars from memory and stumble across roses, casually, and perhaps to look into a room and see only one object. and so the words come just as my arm falls asleep beneath a girl, buzzing and prickly, and I run over each sound like a tongue across brushed teeth, cataloging and memorizing. and if I ever fall in love again, a phrase I’m practicing in the mirror, I hope he carries books in his bag, and seeds in his pockets, and forgiveness in his hands, and likes my crowded, cluttered mind best of all.