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End of the Line

I’m feverish with the realization that everything is so easy for him. I think sometimes our love is a monument of tacky gold or make-believe monsters whose pictures are fake. It will never be that clean. Two boys riding in the same streetcar and suddenly it became iron. Cold, dull and heavy. I can barely breath anymore because I’m so anxious. My blood runs crazy as he sings nursery rhymes like the humming power lines. The tracks are already set, so we just wait for our stop. I wonder if he will get off first to spare me the pain of saying goodbye.

“We are just prisoners tattooing ourselves with three ballpoint pens and dirty knives. Symbols of love and affection. Engraved forever and ever, Amen!”

“A Jew saying ‘Amen’,” I think loudly.

We were just ordinary boys happy knowing nothing and happy being no one but ourselves as we play with the Ouija board looking for all the questions. The bones scattered all about. Bones that lay were they fell; face down on the ground. We are just somebody’s reckless sons singing songs where nothing rhymed.

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