just in case ninth grade english students of the future weren’t going to have a field day with this shit already.



We used to fuck in inclement weather. You liked testing out what you’d learned in high school ecology; that it’s ten degrees warmer under three feet of Michigan snowdrift, that you can hear a hailstorm on the surface of the Superior if you can hold your breath under water long enough. I am just a giant pervert, less inclined towards inconvenience. We pitched tents on a mountainside during a monsoon and the rain on the tarps sounded like hundreds of thousands of pulses, like we were part of one stupendous orgy with everything in nature.

Most sane people go on cross-country bike trips for the bragging rights, or at least the scenery. I wanted to have you on top of a fault line, and when the seismograph complied I was sure, for the first time, that I belonged in this universe. I wanted to scream early Beach Boys songs in avalanche-prone valleys and breathe over the first embers of a wild fire and build us that perfect, blue-eaved house you’ve always talked about, at the mouth of a weak dam and a mile below sea-level. I wanted you to  let the bed frame float off into the street, to hold me against the doorway while the water rose.

The restraining orders were not necessary. It was not about danger and I did not want you dead. I am old now, (never let them tell you that 100 years old is not divisible by 21) and I spend my days toddling over Maryland ice like an infant. The streets are solid winter, and there are no railings. I am just waiting for my feet to go out from under me.

Art is, again, by Mikel Best-Name-Ever Uribetxeberria


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