milk bath

last night the ocean
was full of tornados. i invited you
when i shouldn't have & everyone
was awkward. i found a patch of mushrooms
to harvest up the street. we slept in
bunk beds. you parked your car
across two spots & i thought "wow."
for years we had no bathtub so when
it finally arrived on centipede legs
we tried to not to question it.
you told me, "i am going to get younger."
i have never been one to try & prevent aging.
i welcome it. i do not have anything
that i need to preserve. i am a queer
monster baby & that is all i strive to be.
the windows of the air b&b shattered
in the storm. i thought, "i hope this doesn't
destroy my phone" as the waves crashed
into the living room. i wondered too
if this was retribution for using easy-life
machines to get closer to the water. 
the water says, "i do not recognize you.
please come home." i will be walking my house
around & think to myself, "i want to be home."
there is no conclusion. the word unwound 
& rewound. i stained the negatives so now
we have to pretend like we know each other's names.
of course, i know yours. i keep it written
underneath my tongue in case we run into each other.
walking in the shattered glass i realized the water
was not water at all but milk. i laid down
in a white glossy puddle. cool milk. 
flies starting to arrive to the scene of the crime.
you never got younger to the best of my knowledge.
the milk bath sat for days. turned into 
a shrine to our faces. a halo of wings. 
your skin, soft as mold velvet in the dark.