INFINITE

That felt like

high school 

for a minute.

Uninhibited 

and free.

Genuine.

Present.

And real,

like

infinite nights,

and newness.

Raw-dogging

connection,

midnight calls,

on a landline.  

The punchline

that no one

said

out loud,

we just knew.

We saw it.

Concurrently.

And died.

Didn’t you write 

your own

eulogy

on the back

of the
bathroom 

stall?

Right next to

that guy from

Study Hall’s

digits,

in all of the
wrong places,

at the prom,

but then,

he never called.

turns out,

he was gay.

But not as

queer as

my fear

of never

being loved

just like

this.

Broken,

fractured,

torn,

and

cracked open,

by the very

mould

that was

supposed to

hold me

together.

Build me up

like clay

in the hands

of a potter.

But the

kiln was

empty.

A shell.

And a tomb,

where my

innocence died

one little

rupture

at a time.

Put back

together

with

masking tape.

And hope.

A starvation

for validation,

exoneration,

liberation,

and

veneration,

that I still

feel.

Down

to the 

bone.

Chilled,

and haunted

by yesterday’s

ghost story.

I’d like

a happy

ending

or at least

the possibility

of feeling,

once again,

infinite.