dali, drunk on the eastern bank of the tioughnioga river in the year of my birth

 

this quiet knowledge, this

unspoken admission, this stupid goddamn truth

that all of your great adventures

are in the past

 

that nothing can be touched without the

ever-present threat of doing it harm

 

not by you, of course, but by 100,000,000

others just like you, which is just a

prettier way of saying by you

 

listen

 

a desert is a desert

 

what we were has nothing to do with

who we are

but maybe we can forget this

 

maybe our truths no longer hold any pleasure

 

we never get tired of fucking

just of fucking each other

 

windows left open on early summer afternoons,

you naked on the floor with dying

flowers spilling from your open mouth

 

sunlight and cold wind and

dreams of escape

 

that exact moment where i finally stopped

growing up and just started growing old