We’re never going to have this much fun again. It’s 3:42 am and I’m eating a buttery croissant from the palm of your hand. Are you still thinking of her? The child who approached us in the street and said she was going to pour cyanide in the town’s water supply, her eyes transpicuous and gauze-like. How we didn’t try to stop her or alert the authorities but went to make love instead, against the diaphanous silver of somebody’s car. I felt like a thing, a paint bucket full of country eggs. How tightly my legs wrapped around your waist. I was desperate as a string of bad thoughts. Nothing but the fluttering of my dress soothed me, cheeks puffed with blood. I wanted to make you sick with touch, to test the water supply by smearing the blue in your veins, incisions of light on our path when I stole you away from the party. To drink the poisoned water; polychromatic, untamed intent, drink it and become nebulas —
a revolving door of superstars.