Art Is Casual Lovemaking

I stopped dreaming again in late May, when the square root of two was closer to a whole number and breathing started to matter less. Everytime I blink an hour passes by, and suddenly, I’m staring at teabags littering the desk along with half-developed polaroids and hastily scribbled goodbye notes, stuck between morning eggs. You wear Sativa like it’s your favorite perfume and it reminds me of rainy days and warm, hazy evenings underneath the rumble of the El, the scent of coffee dregs caught in your collarbones. 

I keep thinking about the end of summer and when did you fall in love with me anyways?