so, take this key. we are leav­ing tomor­row. they say: sell everything. they say: there is noth­ing here for you any­more, noth­ing but death. i am stub­born. they will not have this house. i was born in this house, its enclos­ures were my play­ground as a boy. here in this…

your old stones cobbled alley­ways whis­per under my feet of turbaned men hur­ry­ing to mosques women in the mar­kets buying candles for sab­bath blood and screams in your dun­geons too, wars: this har­mony was hard won. your old bones quiet deep in the earth creep under my…

one day you will move cities and we won’t know each other well enough for you to tell me one day you will encounter me in the streets with a young child and be saddened that you didn�t know I’d had her. One day I will drive past some street that we kissed in and…

i want to write about us, about intim­acy about intens­ity and mis­un­der­stand­ing i want to sob uncon­trol­lably in your safety but you are not there i rub at my elbows loose skin and wist­ful­ness wonder about the future dwell on the soft comma of a penis curled on a thigh…