gone is my pre-conceived evolution
2004-01-30 & 11:09 a.m.

this plastic clean is your red hair sobbing in the tuesday night. your hair never found the punch i gave the wall when i remembered you would never have a return address again. this was electrocution at its most impeccable, a glass menagerie of the senses, a yellow inundation of the moon dunking stars in the mediterranean. i am wearing your autumn sweater but in january and someday i will understand the ocean as much as you, with seaweed rendez-vous and who needs skin anyway. marrakech by moonlight, that is, if i had your monologues of sound and flight but this city of drama smells like missing 4:50 buses and recollections that i, too, had a name. this hotel rooftop is the gush of your two dirham clementine, the ones we bought in the market before language killed us both. tonight, you are gone, but we are both the stereotypes of the moon.