the waking dream of walking up slides, wet, puddle at the bottom and a slip of the tongue. there is much more dirt than this, she said, laughing as i chased her, stupid boy that i was. and when we hung upside down on the monkey bars, there were no rubber mats then, only the cement we had long grown accustomed to, chipping away at our teeth. she had a smile that was goofy, just this side of pretty, but eyes that knocked out all awkwardness, a certain kind of wisdom. she would have become beautiful if it wasn’t for where we were born or when, the ravages of living on the outskirts, with only empty hallways to find shelter. there were times we’d get stuck in the narrow elevator between floors and my breathing would stop as her heart raced. i too have left this place, she said, walking away from the apartment buildings and ice cream trucks and subway stations, right into the middle of the busiest boulevard we had ever known. and she was gone just like that, the curls of her hair faintly remembered between my fingers before letting go.

november and the scars have begun to itch. a mean vicious irritation between the vein and the surface of the skin. i dreamt of dancing in my own bile, as the winter wind kicked up leaves heavy with snow. the streets curl open a forgotten friend and i drop against a sharp curb. how many more times like this, of nails tugging against the gum line, of stars lost behind thick clouds.