Do you ever want to walk on the edge?
Jump, scratch, talk, fuck on the edge?
Kill yourself, call for help, wish for wealth: on the same goddamn edge.
Susan called — all I could think of was the time we made a fort, smoked pot, and laid there on the edge.
I had to fight the urge to slowly roll, to fall off the edge as I held her.
What changed my mind?
Thinking of Boyd and our pizza party on the edge.
It was after my 22nd birthday. We drove to the edge in your grandmother’s powder blue Cadillac. Listening to Wu-Tang & recounting Phaedrus. You wanted me to lick your ear, to hover over your dick, my mouth tasting like tropical Swisher Sweet. Instead I contested what Socrates, I mean Plato (whatever), meant about love and lovers. I needed to tell you to stop thinking about our lives outside of this powder blue Caddy.
It was never going to happen for us. Not sustainable. Maybe I could visit, straddle you, call you daddy. On occasion we could mail each other postcards and I would send you a disposable camera with prurient images of my succulent lips: after my bath, before dinner, and while I was day dreaming of sitting on your lap. Signed with a sloppy thumb print. No return address: the same goddamn edge.