Sunday.

What I've written in lines of ether and cellulose, across thighs and paper and creased glass, isn't formidable or condescending. In fact it more often than not resembles something more like peering out of a window through smog trying to see fi the stoplight has changed yet, squinting eyes, an offering. I didn't write letters or sonnets saying how this was flawlessly composed because I knew as soon as I did, I'd feel equally compelled to chew them up, grinding the india ink with my incisors, and then spitting them back out so that they resembled something that looked more like me; poignant and covered in slime. I've lost track of whether I've been disposing the relic of joy or trying to pull it out of antiquity, if it was ever there to start with, or if it, like most of me, was vintage. We're antebellum honestly, made out of starch and proper conversations that I chiseled out of soap, wearing us into the grain until we're pulp you and I, practically indistinguishable from each other.

What you write across your knuckles, "hold fast", I've tattooed to the underside of my eyelid so that every time I imagine the sweetness of solitude I'm reminded of what you begged with hardy glances and adolescent fingers twitching over geography you'll never try to understand. Landscapes are an ambitious attempt even when they're uniform, but when you reach valleys and panes of sienna and chartreuse, I guess it's usual to crumple. I'm assuming that the realistic response is to give it up as a bad job and say you were too busy reading Hawthorne that day and couldn't spare a moment to map it out.

I have inundated myself so that all the valleys run level with fibers and sand and plaster. A concrete expansion of ratified indignation to the ceasing condition of your loveliness. There is no hole left to fill because I have sloughed them all out in the hopes that you will tread with purpose, but it's not quite good enough yet. So let it pour.