I remember
when you took me to Venice Beach
for the first time,
and I saw the firecracker art
splattered on the sidewalk like
forgotten tombstones
and the men with matted dreadlocks,
dusty and muted and grey-gold like
fat squids illuminating dust. it was
partially raining and
you gave me your black coat
and plaid scarf, and the storm
didn’t deter the artists from making their
stained glass penguins and
Adobe-brick blankets. we were so young,
holding hands and digesting the
insanity, the poetry, the loud
bangles and music
from the jazz bassist like thunder
from a troll’s jagged mouth. when the
rain fell harder we ran to your car,
and you kissed me on the mouth
like I was more beautiful than
those artists getting soaked by
the ocean’s dark iron, the
peals of blue diamonds from
the sky. you and i thought we would
live forever, we thought our skin
would always be smooth like
rows of silver sand. I have never been
so lonely
in my life.

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