I wish I could remember those digits on your dorm room
—of the third floor of a building
I only visited twice—
Because I would have written
three-hundred-something reasons
of why I wish I could have forgotten them.

We split ear buds on
the smooth rhythmic train ride of
my hips against yours.

Of back rows, front rows—
Broken eye contact—Day dreams—
And quantum physics.

It's only when you have the best that you realize you don't want the best, you never really did—you want to struggle to pay the rent, you want to fall asleep angry, because screaming is mean and mean gives you meaning.

My body betrays me.

Blood comes to the surface of my skin
—in a testimony of visual court—
where another lover has bit me.

He comes
and goes.
He comes
and goes.
There's always marks
and always traces.
I make
the same mistakes
in different
places.