There is More to This Than This

Me and Wade play hide and seek. We talk through tin cans and string while hanging up laundry with clothespins on the line in between us. We talk about the end of the world, how I burned the house down while making a cup of herbal tea. We laugh about something Wade never saw, all the animals of the forest free from tree-stump cages, eyes with red middles danced in smoke, with phones pressed hard against our faces. Me and Wade we felt once like deer, chased, nuzzled and hunted. We should not be allowed guns, cigarettes, lingerie, booze, fuck, or children. We talk through blue phones moving our hands and mouths like deaf mutes in our cars. We believe there is more to this than this but get tossed in the backs of ambulances when we try to prove it. Me and Wade make fire on lock down, we super heroes.

We touched feet one time during disco, a touch more intimate than a kiss. Wade got scared, looked scared, pushed my foot away. I doused Wade in honey butter cocoa cream and whispered don’t wake the bear, tiptoed alone, flanked in sheets, to my bedroom. Wade wiped clean, soft and smooth.

We got into a fight once, tried to push Wade down three flights of stairs. Wade’s arms would not budge the strain in Wade’s voice, the look in Wade’s eye, the way Wade shook fingers in my face— Wade did not come back for a year.

We got drunk on booze on carpet and wrestled, Wade says do not remember, but I felt Wade’s hate thought Wade would kill me hoped Wade would chew at my neck and kiss these fat lips but it never happened. We slept, woke, Wade watched, I knew, pretended to sleep, smelled Wade’s breath, felt Wade’s gaze, tasted his curiosity, when it got too weird, pulled a three fifty seven magnum from sheets, wiggled it sideways inside ribs and pointed it at Wade’s heart.

We now write letters to each other like ransom notes, clip, paste, glue and place.

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