Infidelity is turning on the television eighteen minutes after an orgasm. Today sadness is a heavy breeze, palpitation over palpitation divided by a sunset that never notices the tide. Today sadness is every empty trashcan blown down the street, so look at us inside—the windows shut, the front door double bolted. Beds don’t live outside so we don’t even bother. Dana Scully is flawed in the sense that she is not real but you are holding my hand so my hand is real and the bruises on your thighs and the soreness through my cock are real and the words on this page are real and one time a girl said she wouldn’t leave and I believed her but she left and stayed gone and thank God even though for years I was like Everything hurts. Then I was like Everything is weird. Now I go Everything is everything, and you are beneath me, biting the pillow, your moans a nod. There is condensation on every piece of your skin I grab more than once. That is most of your skin. A week from now that will be all of your skin. Six years from now, I will keep you in a water jug. I will water your water jug and that means I will never let a spaceship get too close to your head without building a bunker and feeding you cans of sodium that taste like beans. I write in my journal It is easy to sing a song that has no words. I am regretting the whiteness still left on this page. Who thought so many blood vessels in a lip could burst?