the last time

you were piloting the space ship 
without any eyes. 
my empty greek yogurt container
full of fingers. i put on a pair
to love you with. it was a night
in august. everything was indigo. 
even the street lamps. every restaurant 
we tried to eat at was dead or gutted
& in their place stood dollar stores.
we ended up in a gas station parking lot.
you asked if i ever devoured
a pigeon. i admitted, "yes, once."
even though i had much more times 
than that. i had imagined for months
that our lives would roll 
into one big pink ball of yarn.
that i might wake up every day
& find you on the ceiling, standing
with a knife in your mouth. 
we ended up just getting honey buns.
fingers sticky. washed our hands 
with air out the window. there was
no where to go & nothing to do.
just sirens & rhinos in the streets.
they greased the street lamps
with butter to keep any crowds 
grounded to earth. you tried to show me
how you could fly. wings stretched.
duck feathers. you couldn't 
get off the ground. you said
over & over, "i have done this
so many times." they way our futures 
fail us when someone is watching. 
i kept your camera. the one you left
on my nightstand. the following week
i took a train to a new ice cream city.
i always promised i would write to you.
your address rung church bells 
where it was folded on my desk.
i never did but i do still think of you
when the summer is full of holes.
bleeding beams of light.