I was never a straight shooter with you,
so I’m tell you now
while I’ve got this strange bravery messing my chest:
I love you like Mexican wrestlers love their outfits.
I miss you like graffiti misses clarity.
I want to crack open for you like a sinner on Sunday.
When I see you kiss another woman
my arm hairs form armies of Elliot Smiths
sifting the wind for some soft suicide song.