this is a ritual, religious or no:

one is the turning of the house key–  no, it is the fumble prior in locating–    no, it is the dragged steps across hallways.       it is the silence of mercy.

two is your shadow beckoning and the melting into bedsheets. half is half-lit phone screens illuminating. three-quarters is yours alone.  the radio doesn’t know.

three: the narrative is missing. this one is specific. i’m in love with you alone but i’m talking about me and the radio still doesn’t know. in montage or flash cards through seventeenth autumn and this tropical cocktail, my ash-island, my haze-bridge between worlds when you cut through mountains. equatorial arctic portable refrigerator i paid $14 for. there are highlands and crossroads between your creases and a five hour bus ride to your heart.

four– i’ve known forever, darling. no bats here but horn-bills and other primary hued beaked beauties. when i laid on the base of that 8th floor campsite the little square on the wall whispered me home. i stood alone on a dancefloor a while ago. illegal(but everybody was so-). under canopies of teen revelry and blunt magazine my best friend told me nobody does this. but you’re my own and still shining, through cenang the creaky bunk beds to lights pulsating on buildings i can’t reach. from darks to green and crystals. sparkling. this is not religious but it may as well be.

five, is never ending.