There are phantom limbs pulling from everywhere: gold-framed Steve Madden aviators, listening to Isles and Glaciers, endless fumes of cigarette smoke–these are all moths in the heart and stomach, but these moths are poisonous or, most likely, on fire. I’m wondering where you are, their powdered wings catch flame, I’m wondering about black holes. It was the finale the day I tried to give the sunglasses back, but you said “keep them until next time.” He is going back to South Carolina. Now I see him, now I don’t. Two months later, I send him a text, ‘I think I lost your sunglasses in Chicago.’ That night I find them in a Lush shopping bag. ‘Nevermind!’
The black hole answers: Nevermind afternoons in your car, the video we filmed driving aimlessly around the island. Never mind the shape of your long arms unfurling, wrapping my small bones. Never mind your lips on my crown of curls. Now I see you…I keep expecting you’ll reappear and then you don’t. Moths on fire pick at napalm-coated veins, pull hearts through ribs, carry them to black chrysalis boxes. They are told they can’t escape. This is the only reality left. But why? Why did you vanish without an exquisite bow-out? How can I still feel you here?


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