It is a summer night. We are sat in your bedroom; sticky and warm, limbs entangled into a terrible knot I could only compare to the one in my stomach. I tell you I love you fifty-seven times. You say it back only twice. It doesn't feel like it has any meaning anymore and maybe I did that to myself—made the phrase hollow and empty. I say it when I love you, I say it when you're gone, I say it when you scare me. The fear doesn't matter much, though. I am bigger than you are, so it does not matter. Take me down to the creek and bury me with the weeds and animal carcasses and I will breathe new life into the dandelions. I ask of you this, and you look excited. You smile. You smile. You smile. You smile. You smile. You smile. You smile.

Lets be this way forever, ok?