PAINTED LADY The worst part is how my thumb could erase her body but not the nausea draining her body down to a dull hum, her skin against bone: the scaffolding not around her heart but the movement of her heart wrapped in a cocoon, the way she emerges weeks later, covered in butterfly wings folding and folding in the kerosene sky, finally refusing the kiss, the spark, the mere possibility love could move next door, never cut the grass, not make a big deal when she lets her hair down, I want her to tell me I should leave, tell me loneliness is a compass needle, a pencil tip, that she is just a sketch I trace with my thumb.
Eric Kocher
Dear James, Everyone here is talking about you—myself included. Most of it is the expected back-and-forth, will-he-won’t-he sort of thing, though, personally, I like to imagine you will, and that (because you are, I assume, exactly like your character on Freaks and Geeks), you’ll be slumped over in the back of Intro to Doctoral Studies carving something like “Disco Sucks” into the faux-wood desk with a penknife. We look over at each other all like “whatever” and after class we get some beers and talk about the Astros or Hart Crane or Anne Hathaway (Coming to visit? Really? That’s awesome! I guess we can all get together and go bowling or something). On the other hand, fantasies of us being best friends aside, I have what feel like legitimate fears of you stealing my girlfriend or having no one ever want to talk to me at parties. Either way, for [...]