flip your calendar eight summers back: there's two boys on the cusp of godhood, so drunk on candour they poured it in and over their heads like conked out crowns for the stands to grapple and gawk & in return ravel their scalp burned cold. two boy-almost-gods on the brink of madness believing their outstretched palms will stay empty longer than narcissus loved himself — liquid vanities, virgin hearts — bringing upon his own ruin in the bruising moments between his wake / crying out [their] artless folly and horror of being part of the damned.

(—a dead flock of crows afraid of being damned isn't what this story is about; but it's where it was born. it hailed from the scabbed whispers by locked doors and from a ball—or was it the sun, or was it jupiter, mars, the satellite, the orbit?—the world's kept in the air ever since the first jump, the starting leap. no, this story isn't about a dead flock of crows. you see, you're mistaken, you've read the cover false; it's never been about the ones on the ground, earthed and rooted. it's always been about the ball in the air like the sun and the people so desperate to keep it in the sky they joined it up above.)

in the waking mornings, the breath after a dream, this story would not be about boy-gods with wings as they were birthed, but about the ones that flew in the only way they knew how.

but forget the waking mornings, and take a drink after the breath of a dream: string out orange poison pills full of the blood dews of these boy-gods, poison nectar that will never let your hands go, not your veins, not your vessels — nay, you will forever be bound to watch their backs as they soar and you're left anchored to the ground, mirrored ghost. (take an irony: i write you like i haven't taken my cut of toxin, as if i myself remembered the waking mornings, the breath after a dream. take this irony and flush it in curves on your thighs, lock it with a laugh and smite i who wrote you like i've already erased the traces of these boy-gods from my pages and paragraphs. weren't i here, inking them permanent?)

i've flipped my calendar back eight summers and set it in the day of a new moon. when dusk strikes, and i've forgotten the waking mornings, i'll pray to these boy-gods a plea: when you ride away and you've taken your candour, your poison pills, your sun in the sky — i beg you. look back. take me with you.

06,

... leftovers.

+ my word vomit over haikyuu ending

yes it's me im the leftover