When we were in Berlin, I let my leg hair grow out and you said you hated it but I did it anyway. I smoked long cigarettes that are no longer manufactured in Europe, outlawed in the United States. I asked you about if I could get in trouble on the streets for smoking these and you said no of course not what cop would be voiced in cigarette laws.

"Voiced" you said.

When we were in Pondicherry, India and every bright color. The dogs with mange, tumors riding sidesaddled against their paunches, that one photo of you smiling because that is what we are taught to do, smile in every picture, you are leaning against a manilla wall with the dog on your left and you are smiling.

What teeth do you have. I try to pull mine out when I look in the mirror anyway. How we hold all of them hostage. Open wide do you see do you see, remarkable.

I tried to open the door but to touch meant a blister or two, so hot. Does this mean fire. When a fire consumed all of my possessions, what do you hold dear anymore. My love, you have left me

again and again. What prostitute what envy. My love did you ever love me at all did you.

When we were sitting with our backs to the wind on Lake Michigan and you recite an Ashbery poem you say "Bombed out of our minds, I think/The way here is too close, too packed/With surges of feeling. It can't be" and we watch a sunset turn. December, our love has faded. I am pacing the hallway of a grand suite hotel in the city of your youth and I am saying no to you, no no time to go back. You take a picture out of the wall of windows, a caption that reads "this city looking like another city" which means what of characteristics and time. We are in love so take me to your hometown, show me around. I forgot what it is like to take your clothes off with someone that loves you. How to make love like an animal. It's easy you say.