bugss

We ride our bikes into the brush 
flying effortlessly down winding thin roads
endlessly searching and reaching for that next breath
that next grace 
to lift the weight of gravel inside our stomachs

i am trapped in that broken state of consciousness
between sleep and wake
where the rest and rem comes from a deeper sort of aching need 
fullfilled
in the early hours of time

branches shift against your window,

i think it was your brother
that told me
how you nearly killed yourself

but i spent a while 
hidden in the knowledge
of your pain
as if i could have somehow known
before he told me

the futility i feel represented in the emotions
of happy people that surround me
is overwhelmingly apparent

i keep returning to thoughts
of pity and distain
rank with sickly precaution
and reprehensible entitlement

there is a store
you usually buy hunting things at
and on our hands and knees
we released ourselves into the clothing section
to collect the sizing tags
that had fallen off the hangers

handfuls of colorful cylinders

The day I arrived in your home that summer, your mother broke our tradition.