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I could maybe die of the right country song, I think
standing in line at a sandwich shop
There is no great secret to love
But I still wonder about looking at you
on the bus after we went to the limestone caverns
without our wallets, thinking nothing so beautiful
could take our money. The pedal steel
wire-walks to my heart's perch, swaying
I believe in things in short bursts
Small pockets where my grief becomes holy
You could run me through with a clean sheet of wind
when spring is a small tumble
Devastating like a perfectly placed mountain
There are never enough songs about the full moon
People show you their best faces
Structured and perfect melodies
Hanging from their lips
But I'm done listening to that album
for at least two or three relationships
or until I press my cheek against a happiness
I've yet to identify in previous iterations
of relative emotional fulfillment
I will attend a wedding in the future
I will not get drunk enough
not to notice the blood on everyone's shirt
I will listen to science when science says
We are not just failing each other
Though it's what we do best
And my life like the moon
will be just small enough
to cover with a thumb





All winter I feel the lake guilt-tripping me
It's true no one knows what they want
I dreamt I had a smokier voice and compromised easily
You stayed gone and I was so proud
Here to explain my misconceptions about intimacy -
I think of love as a machine that needs no maintenance
It whirrs quietly in the corner while I work
Not watching you on the bed watching me
If you feed it, it will only ask for more
There are people with excellent jawlines
In every city
Eating vegetables in bright clothing
It's spring that makes them touch everything
The softest hair in the Museum District
One of us will move first
And the other will spend a summer reclaiming space
Will plant a flag in the botanical gardens
And the booth at BT's where I complained about portion size
Which was really complaining about giving away something I hate
Everything is getting more expensive
And people are turning all their lights off
Out in the street they are gleamingly drunk
And ripe for need projection
The first one to go
I watch you reach for
In my memory, I mean
Was visible light, I ran to eight times





I'd like to be the kind of person that knows desire
Is a strained muscle, wanting to be fixed
Like everything else
But I haven't seen the ocean in six years
A body of water becomes a myth
Becomes an absent shrine
Becomes a regressive pattern
Becomes itself back into the pools of my youth
Where I screamed feelings about my brother
The only place he couldn't hear
Now I go for a run
And he's coming back from a run
And that's how I know he's home
There's no purpose
But I end up at the same tree every day
I give it all my bees
And take only the peace I need
To get through dinner
It's not a fair exchange, but really
Neither of us has a choice






Dylan Lewis is a student in Richmond, Virginia. // @seaphloem