French toast at noon.
Every summer, every winter.
In the thick cerulean light of evening
A dyke astrophysicist’s dream
I pray to any god who will deign to hear me.
That’s my actual tongue circa 2014 in the photo. I thrive on bad choices.
Rose petal tea isn’t pink.
Pretending it never happened isn’t going as well as expected.
Black as fresh-made coffee.
She smiled and I felt gutted.
You have to listen to “Dead Friend” by Against Me! when you read this poem. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.