Remember the six of us holding roman candles
and all wishing the water in that fountain
was deep enough to dive into -
I think I can start at the parts where you stop.
You said the ground was soaked with wet drip imprints
of us beautiful and us horribly distorted,
and we were flushed against some statue.
We stretched our arms out on either side
until our hands met,
like growing long gnarled barks
around a hundred year old tree.
I remember Conner’s home
was only a fridge, a fireplace,
and a projector playing images
of happy people dancing.
Tell me more about balancing
on top of the statue,
and I’ll tell you about the apartment
and how I saw a snatch of myself on his wall
while spinning on the floor.
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