Watch this: you do it for the nestling, et al. But I do it because I’m obsessed secretly with oil—the pores, the fluid running down like all the slime I ever saw fall on Nickelodeon shows in 90s. We have pizza and movie night like when my brother and I were babysat. To sleep next to you is to be an avocado. These warm options include tears. Our skins rub off gently. Under my beard is the face of a boy still alone and the tv shows’ glows pencil moods on my face. Look in through the window at the picture of me single. Look in through the back on my imagined sleeping. This is me defending myself through the silhouettes you see in the window of dishes and bills on the kitchen table. These noodles are also a part of me. The stopper came loose when I was young and I heard about it but didn’t know how to stop it. Look in on the notebooks about moonlight but it’s stormed every Iowa night since you left. Would you believe that when I heard the wind blow through the broken shades I thought I heard an Arabian folk song and I held my phone for a moment like a boy with bread. Look in through this long cage of rain at me rapping the floor with my toes. You’d think there were places it never rains and colorful women like cartoons carry diamonds endlessly. Although through that off-rhythm I noticed I had stopped being what I would be and became what I could have been. Although, I’ll say although.

by Russell Jaffe