I have a thing about teeth. It was early August. We were high. We were sitting on your porch steps. Your parents were at an Italian restaurant, arguing about your father’s affair. I crushed seven ants with the toe of my Chinese slipper. You were playing with my hands, murmuring something under your breath. I wish I remember what you were saying. I think you started crying at some point, but I was focused on the ugly algae shaped clouds and the circles you were rubbing into my palms. You weren’t loud. I was wearing your summer camp t-shirt. The wood of the stairs splintered thin. “I’m sorry” “It’s not your fault” “That’s not the point.” “What is the point?” Everyone has their pool boys, their secretaries. I remember a dove, slick feathers tucked behind our ears, a shot dove falling from the algae clouds like a miracle. In that dream, you might’ve been crying. Secret: I still check your Facebook page too much. Secret: I still want you. Secret: I never wanted you. I won’t use any metaphors in this. The blossom of an exit wound. The way water can burn too. How a stump can maybe grow into a tree.