The Chicago sky is a grey sadness. The city fluent in a language of weeping. Scratches from the train’s dirty silvery sheen echo the howls of soil-kissed workers a century ago. The mouth of the lake opens an invitation to excavate childhood. The forensic profile of an abandoned restaurant sitting above my scalp and the menu of dishes with the same name—your name. You whispering to the wall clocks of the house. You wanting to never touch a blade of grass. You pulling my hair and the inevitable. You inside me and my prostate was Chicago fire. Iron in blood. I hold you and rust. Skin ashing. Returning to beginning. Boy floating on Mississippi tributaries. Lakes engorging my sockets. A pebble stuck in my throat. Regret is the smallest seed between a rubber shoes’ valleys. You and I obsessed with what if. Your boxes and my belongings found their way to the Midwest. What if we folded back into boys throwing stones in the lake. The lockets we found after diving into a body of grief. Bodies stacked side by side. Bodies of dry logs. A hand holds another hand holds a promise that should never be taken seriously.
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