I dream of wax bags and the danger tape. bed covered in dirt and stale candy. Your drawers filled with bloody tissues and metal memories, bottle caps and clouds that have turned brown. We rest the screen on our thighs and pass a cigarette back-and-forth. we kiss but never fuck; I can't get it up. the "good sense" is too good. I hide in your bathroom, dodging the cockroaches, belt in hand, belt in mouth, as you two eat coconut treats and drink coconut vodka, lying around in your underwear, writing papers and making arts and crafts. I haven't slept in days but I've been asleep for about two weeks now and time has turned around to about six years ago; I think I might have failed...

Noah Jashinski