Show me, you say, *show me the hallway.
                         Show me the bedroom, show me where we used to live. That tree, over there, with the apples.
                                                               You, and then not you.
You, crossed out.
                                                            ­                          You, in the windowsill
                                                   with your hair pulled back.
Take me, I say, take me like we're already dead.
                                                                ­                  You know how this ends.
              My hands, your hands, harmony.
A lit match, maybe. And death itself, there beside us.
                                        **** me, you know how,
              you've done this before, I say, panic and soap that smells a bit too much like your brother's wake.
                                                           ­                     Play me a funeral song. Impress me, and you say,
                                                            ­        what's left to impress?
And maybe I'm not the antichrist, but it's not like you are, either.
           This, our hands, you, the radio stuck on one station, crossed out.
Red pen.
                                                                ­        This isn't a temporary solution.
            You're singing, I say, and you just keep on, say,
                                                     this isn't a funeral,
like it's none of my business.
                                 The radio again, playing the only way it knows how.
The mountains, over there in the distance,
                                                       ­                                               spying on us.
Your hands, my hands, ******* like knots, like
                                       this is the only way we can love. But it’s not, is it,
             don't you remember the treehouse?
Three blocks down the road a man has blood on his hands, and you are the man and you aren't, all at once.
                                                  You, me, clockwork.
A bell, tolling in the distance.
                                                       ­                                                                 ­                                                                                                            Repeat.

guess you shouldve thought about that
before you broke your mothers back,huh,sweetheart?

We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.

On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.

We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.