// Pink Tangerine //

some girls need more space in bed than others,
when they move to the edge and pull away all your covers.

she taught me things about
 buildings,
  technology,
         worlds beneath desks,
          between sleeping bags and chemical longing.

what we had would be
brief and intense
her toothbrush adorning my sinkspace,
a generous reminder that I am relevant.


One night we stayed in,
cooked pasta,
    stopping only to lock lips against
    the laundry machine
    and be breathtaking teenaged phantoms.
she showed me galleries of snapshots,
made me blush a million infernos,
and under the cloak of moonlight
we lay placid beneath a still sea of blankets
while neighbors declared war on
silence and sobriety.

I walked out of her building the next morning,
cherry-red vomit
caked the sad sidewalk,
birds made their morning noise
and groups of brutish hair-gelled mallrats
surveyed the damages by swapping
suck and fuck anecdotes about
belligerent midnight princesses.

Galloping through another Carolina heatwave,
I heard the outside world
whisper her praises the whole way home.