dear x: animal

dear x,

so many of these stories take place in a bar or in a dark bedroom. this one begins in between.

i am writing you this love letter, x, because not many boys would walk miles with me, aimlessly strolling the sprinkler-flooded, unevenly patched streets of boise on an unusually warm may night. but you did, laughing at my awkward self-deprecating jabs and mild aversion to encountering midnight wildlife in your neighbor's garbage.

when i agreed to keep walking, you said, "but it's really far." as if my feet submitted to a curfew, a contrived limit, a sense of finality. i suppose, x, you didnt know that our stroll odometer measured arm brushes, how many times i could smell you in the evening air, and no yawns-- and not in kilometers or how many hours left until my alarm interrupted your embrace.

love,
a.

i'm not asleep

i'm up for the fight

into the magic

i don't want the concrete
i am alive comes with the tragic