how the skin beneath your eyes is humble, honey, how it is hopeful, and yet hard.
i should call this page 'ode to peeping tom'.
sometimes tom crunches down on my neck, on my collar bones, on my face. we have been crying all weekend, crying together and apart. he crunched my neck a little, and he kissed all of my sailboats. i carved them in my arm yesterday, in a frenzy. and i picked his nose and pulled his armpits, and wrestled with his small self.