Joek

My hands are on fire. It burns to type. I apologize guitar, for all that I've done and not done, the neglect and rejection. Never again will I allow you to fall into such disrepair as you'll be separated from me; 13 days in the company of strange men who fondle your neck and body.

Sometime, late at night in the recess of my mind, I wonder on New York, a city of gawking, if Joe had let me hold his hand, perhaps that man would not have made fun, would not have incited his classmates to laughter. They tipped him for the joek.

I've had two dreams about Viv in the past week.