There’s something about us, and it’s turned me into a pulpy mess. This energy we whipped into a monsoon of mawkish emotion slinks through my hands like liquefied love in a rain storm; and I grab my heart out of my chest and I try to use it as a bucket to carry us out of the downpour before down we wash away.  Mostly, to no avail, because I don’t excel at collecting the pieces of myself–myself and others feeling  foregone.  And I want you in my life, but every caress  of yours feels like your one way ticket to Casablanca, each kiss a flight to Khartoum, each gaze a train ride to Gaza. Temporary was printed on the first condom we ripped open. It was tattooed on our sternums, right below the hair we use to hide the legacies of romances that were stabbings. Your scent carries my mind three thousand kilometres with you, but I’m man enough to let you go, to be your own person.

Still, I’m going to listen to this Daft Punk cover and clutch the bed sheets you abandoned in an apartment that housed nothing of value, including every body that rolled across your bed.  I’m human, after all; or, at least sometimes I convince myself so. There’s something about us, and we’ll both fuck our way across continents. But maybe, just maybe, our jet planes will collide in the same room again.

Find the Soundcloud link here [Sorry Spazzkid, but that album art c’est tres terrible].

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