by Justin Mulwee


Under a tree on top of a hill some ugly girl told me I stole her spot. Then you asked me if I ever stood watching the rain come at me in the dark, and I said no. You had big blue eyes, and sad, so I gave you my coat so you wouldn't catch cold.


Against a starless sky I saw your ugly silhouette that walked like me at some obscene hour, some scrawny thing, a restless shade of a thing like me, who couldn't sleep.

And the two of us walked where no one would with our friends in bed we were out like secrets, like blown lights, and we talked about God, and your bruises, and why you couldn't sleep.


You got beautiful somehow, when I wasn't looking. We talked under a street light when you weren't drunk and you didn't cry anymore. You gave back my coat. You didn't need it.