Antagonist, didn’t we

always neglect one another so beautifully

that strangers tripped on their curbs just

to gawk? I love you antagonist, not the one, blot.

Shifts go on around us, the room swallows light,

solidifies, creeps back to a still.

Lady leans onto a table she knows is smeary.

Lady smokes. Lady wants so bad to be known

as insouciant. I love you stain, creep,

indignancy. Runaways bend to sidewalks

they know are sooty. Runaways smoke.

Runaways want so bad to be known

as splinters gone free of the relevant life.

Lady will affect a bourbon and soda.

Lady leaves rooms with a smirk. Runaways

greet her, out on the tiles, on the strip

between splinters and lightning, between shatter

and desperate kiss under desks.

I love you, antagonist, so wrong

for the system. Lady plays 1988 loud on the stereo,

splinters her hands with guitars. Runaways ply the sidewalk with

power chords, work the angles, feel lonely in cities,

creep back into towns.

Antagonist, isn’t it all about waiting?

Between years, we got prettier, easy

to taste, smoother with continents buzzing our skin.

Between years we learned the lesson of begging,

chipped our front teeth on doorknobs,

rubbed hard on each other, the table, the ground.