It’s beginning to look a lot like

Thursday. The eve of the

weekend. Where I go to

pretend labor is always

joyful. That my rest is easier

than air. Cascading the body

down the staircase of a work

elevator, I feel remorse for

the middle errors of

administrative ventures, and

times where I was not a

good person. Glory fury,

tangible rebellion: Youth’s

trench. A sweet sublime was

the friendship.

I was a real butch in the

weeds. My finely shaved

moustache, her goosed

leggings. Our tongue made

of fine licking, of silver

spoons. I had you like

diamonds need deep cuts.

Because I want you so bad

tonight, to forgive me.