The midwest throws neon colored food at us. We have something microscopic in our throats. The trees procreate with pink, twirling helicopters that Carmen decides magical.
We go to to festival about a truce, called Truce Fest. We are trucing about colors of skin. You find a pair of earrings. Everything is pink here. We dance with the pavement. The hippies dance with the wind.
There is that hike where we turn into trees. We look at the pictures later. We look good together, and that’s a relief.
We go to a bar after a fight. Vague pout. On you, a faint stew. Whiskeys. Dark corners. The coasters are from 1962. This tornadic weather has made us want to drink. There are folks like old trees swaying at the end of the bar. “I hope she doesn’t shoot me when I walk in the door,” one says. “TV told me to bend over and kiss my ass goodbye,” says another.
I am exhausted and I want to go back to the motel room. I want you to press down on me with all your weight. I want us to feel so heavy, we’ll never be lifted from here and transplanted somewhere new.
We will never have to learn to be anybody else.
