Everything evaporates slowly in an unseasonably warm spring. Firetrucks aren’t as red as they once were. Pain isn’t nearly as incapsulating in the physical realm. But the pain of the tattoo gun pressing against your cerebellum is what traps you and makes you scream. They’ll all leave eventually. They’ll leave and you’ll be stuck here, glowing finally but glowing alone. You’re a neon sign with one letter flashing in helpless murder of a perfect word. Closed becomes close. Close becomes lose. It’s all breaking apart just as it’s coming together. Syntax and diction are crawling under your nailbeds and what are you doing instead? You nap and you cry, you drink and you fuck. You scream, you laugh, you finally leave your bed just as everyone else heads home. He was British and he wanted you. He was British and you left him standing on a street corner with your dreams clawing at his belt buckle. Home alone on the kitchen floor, that small ice cream drip from last week is sitting right beneath your cheek but you’re too drunk to care. This warm spring took all of the fight right out of you. What’s left? That lonely drip of ice cream on the unwashed kitchen floor. That smell of him dusted on your clothes. The bloody hope that all this isn’t for nothing.