Bring the OJ

Josh, when living your best life you are a floodgate, the last restraint between us open mouths and feelings we had never had Until you, we didn’t know the sky could turn purple, or that our bruised bodies could be targets for a kiss—from beneath a mustache, yes, or from a needle. Thank you for teaching me to suffer with company. Thank you for showing us that together we can weather even weeks of rattling at death’s door. And when you kissed me you were the first man who touched my cheek without expecting more. Even a father looks for reciprocity. Even a lover thinks a kiss a door. Only yesterday the four of us took ecstasy in a stranger’s bed. We were teenagers willing to die to feel that kind of love. You bring the OJ. You keep our bras and boxers on. You make the mirror clean as we dirty up our noses. But Josh, you opened too far, you let it all come down. What is it like to be a feeling with no body left to open? How should we know what we can take without you holding the flood above the dam? Tell me where you live if not above or with us, if not spilling out onto the ground.