december of '16

she framed herself, swimming and clothed, inside the swing-set, one moon east, hungry and low. he tried to find the courage, caged behind cowering eyes. She held something powerful over most she crossed tragic paths with. her unwavering intelligence is what always got him most. spanning back to an atlanta that doesnt exist anymore, one gentrified seaboard ave, beside the tracks and inked six layers deep, his arm needled and wiped forever. he told the tattooer, a friend named dave, the seriffs have to look like this, its her hand writing from an envelope she'd written previous, licked close and put off to the postal worker. then from a yet unknown san francisco and cross country to the south. see, they met one night on a hooded walk, both young and she recovering from some bad bacteria caught in another country. he, beckoned and broke-necked, admittedly grasped at straws, clung-to and held on to every glimpse mentionable. there was always new orleans too. crossing the mississip at night and with the same endeared clamor. a bit quieter over there and away from one royal street, a quarter-side mardi gras. his first, twice. 15 years later, expelled, we shared the saved letters,  a carpet-rented bedroom floor in wilder, far from anything they knew previous, conflicting stories of the last time they had seen one another, sf valencia street, pre-gent leaving herbivore, now closed, on bike 03 vs 131 center st santa cruz ca post an oregonia road trip. a reminiscent argument they laughed at in wonder. penned repacked and shelved.

a sheet out from under set the scene. headin west, again.