more sure every day as the sun comes up and the shower water runs hot and down the mildewing drain. is the heat on? the heat is on, but i don't need it. towels are just fine. i was asking for help in the little ways, but i think love and futures were the questions someone else was asking. we speak in different tongues, and i'd like to know how to carve mine out to make something that will find me something pretty to my heart.

i could sell pages. i could sell color on paper, and mood on paper, and ideas that jar and make you laugh because of your willingness to laugh, like a toll fare paid at a gate that you need to drive through to get to the places you have to be.

i have red in a bottle. i have white too; these color demarcations that do not capture the color, rosy like a post sunset of a storm night put on rare hold, and dew on aging straw. i think of dying. i think of death. i think of how little unrequited love moments break me, but you held me so sweetly, and i don't know if it's enough or not, to apply emotional credit for things i don't know if i have. i can't afford it, and i don't want you paying for things you don't want to pay for.

red in a glass. red in my mouth. i kissed you as real as i could with all the things i had in me, and i wanted you to know that i did, that i loved you, but i didn't know what else there was for me to try to say with my imperfect mouth. my secrets are worthless. i have nothing. the only thing i'm holding onto, is that glance, which is as sweet as all the glances i've ever wanted, and it's all that i've got to go on.