i keep looking up for your face in the stars but constellations have only ever looked like spoons to me     by Stephen Michael McDowell _____________________ blast furnace the element, gold seems a poor assimilation of an otherwise sweet, incorruptible form and when your arms extended against the fire escape that morning the last time i saw you we looked at each other, and laughed somehow an acknowledgment, that nothing separates from itself without confirmation that it isn’t itself anymore but will somehow be valued more as, like, i don't know a cow or something maybe no okay seriously please just give me the bracelet how else are we going to make rent _____________________ >