After You Texted How Are You? and Before I Responded Pretty Good, How About You?
(I considered ambition, that slippery hill climbed in the name of what hallucinations, and my insides, all gurgles and popping, full of deli sandwich and fifteen-years-seized muscles along the spine, and a vague behind-the-eyes tired from reading about destruction until after midnight, and my dream from early this morning, where the adopted child we were raising together tried escaping every hour until her father came back for her and finally we could make love again in our home, and I surveyed my chipped red nail polish, the kind that in a bar last year over whiskey, you said you loved, before I blacked out and woke up at sunrise afraid to have said the wrong thing, always afraid of this.)
