Here I sit,
beside my
nightstand,
where Harry
Styles covers
Vogue. I like
this, my clean
publishing para-
digm, don’t you?
There I sat, all
brokenhearted and
pistol-whipped, eating
a mango, mid-hallucination.
It seems like only yesterday
that we were spooning on the
rent-a-couch, trying to watch an
episode of Night Court, each of our
cans of peaches were awkwardly agape,
having been so clumsily opened, and were
sitting on the coffee table between us and
the graveyard makeshift court of law. We
talked well into the night about that summer
we both worked in factories: yours mass-pro-
duced pincushions; mine, little girl vanity sets
that were almost as large as life, depending,
of course, on the actual size of your little girl.
