i dreamt last night

of the port of edmonds

of the poem you wrote for me in comic sans

of swimming to india and getting into a fight with you

next to the southern tip of africa

i tried to give you the silent treatment

but that doesn’t work when we’re the only ones

who are drowning a league beneath the sea

you can’t scream because

when you open your mouth

the salty sea rushes in

and your last words are incoherent

you told me once you had a thing for skylines

and cities reflected across dark oceanic water

like a parallel universe washed in colliding white waves

and now i’ve woken up, or maybe i’ve fallen asleep

and this bed feels too big for one person

where is my roommate

all i see are her drawings of eyes plastered on the walls

and all the people come and go

but i don’t think they have ever spoken of michelangelo

so here i am

with my fire detector asphyxiated in a plastic bag

smoking cigarettes and flicking the ash into a magic lamp

trying to cover my secrets with the smell of incense

locke once proposed that we should have a separate word

for every phenomena that have and will ever occur

liberry (n.) – the way a book might taste

if you licked the words off the pages.