im screaming i love my photographer

flash of police sirens somewhere in front, then behind. i keep thinking about how if this was a war story we’d both be arrested, and you laugh at my stumbling history. 1936. you smile and it’s a deja vu moment against a different wall, and i tell you the memory. i have to, there were so many things that i never did let you know and now you’re here and warm and alive and i can’t stop talking. breathing. we don’t have to do this if i don’t want to. but i do want to. so much, since you started haunting my daydreams and nightmares and god, we deserve this. we deserve completion. i’m just not sure how to tell you. you understand though, always have. you taste like chapstick and vertigo.

i find myself looking at the door counting down, numbers, the skipped pulses, the strands of messy hair, the need.  and i’m thinking of you and 17:38 and let’s go you gotta go, i’m shaking a little less than yesterday. i can never keep my mouth shut and you’re spilling laughter like ink and i feel my heart getting stained with this, and it feels like art. you’re the only thing i remember clearly, the gray canvass of the bathroom wall and this painting of us. photograph love. i want to write this into a song, into more moments, into chalk and blood and light. i want you again.