on the corner of forsyth and adams the roof of my understanding came down, a thunderbolt suspending the sense of things i stood there with him on the corner of forsyth and adams with a pressure between my eyebrows that formed endless questions and thankfully, whiskey on one rock asked the questions that i might have been— would definitely have been— too scared to ask i said, what is going on? what is going on? am i allowed? to care? what convenience an unwritten contract allows. you attempted
to explain away the crescendos that occurred behind your closed door. “you are leaving, i don’t owe you any explanation.” who would have thought, a voice like honey could drip from knives.