Functional, Smooth

All in one sentence.


The light on
my phone screen is making it hard
to write in the dark
but the frat party next door
is making it harder
to sleep

Earlier everyone shrieked
when “Gold Digger” came on
which, like, same
but now it just sounds like people
are arguing in the aftermath
of this party so what else is new

Why is it that everything we do for fun
is also so upsetting I want to ask them
not because they’d know but as a way
of wondering why people go to parties
if they always leave upset

I don’t go to parties sometimes
I wish I did


The difference between worship and connoisseurship is self-consciousness.


There were years in my life when looking up at the sky only meant limitless potential—perhaps there will be again


When I’m reminded of you, it’s not your face or your voice; it’s the smell of your hair, the feeling of sitting on your floor, the places we’ve gone.

He rolled over, looking, to reassure himself that HE was there to look back—he was, he was—and, without blinking because it could still break, he saw his own stare returned, blue eyes for brown, saw from brows and irises and the set of his lips that he too felt alarmed; young as they were, he shuddered yet each time he felt this brush at real understanding, this brush at feeling as though they could see into the tucks and folds, the knitting of each other; reaching, shivering, through this connection, he felt a sense of length over depth—as though it was some late night or rainy evening and for small, rending moments the distance between eye and hand measured lonely worlds—across the bed they had bought three weeks ago, a Thursday, cheap, reaching his eyes from the pillow toward him while the distance between, indivisable, spanned the distance between stars, between on and off on the switch across the room, and, though their eyes met, though he felt him reach in return, they could not touch; he felt them push together as magnets against this force that held them apart, (he worried that they were themselves this force) until slowly it gave, the switch hung moments between up and down before snapping into place, and with a rush they met, collapsed, huddled; now curled at the center of the bed, only smaller, insignificant against the room with its peeling wallpaper, its unshaven carpet and rusted window, against what lay half-perceived beyond, looming; they lay, clutching at each other, terrifed.