My backpack is packed with unread books bought for skipped classes. Yr pipe’s in yr glove box beneath all the maps and sunglasses. Our old lives as new punks and new lives as old ones crashed and collapsed the last time you sat on my mattress. We called out for nurses though yr cut couldn't cleave through my dermis. You were visibly sick each time I’d make an infecund purchase. We wanted class struggles to beget more than mumbles, but when we held hands, man, we had still had these virgin-white knuckles. We had migraine auras and minefield walks and tattoos we could hide behind long-sleeves and socks and make ups and break outs and make outs and break ups and calls made in the morning when clearly still fucked and notes that we wrote and semicolons accrued and drives through Wisconsin and stops for shit-food and words that you knew that I never knew but still tried to use around you. Fingertips pulled away from lips; and hips, away from hips. The joy we kept inside our chests is now the joy we split. Fingertips pulled away from lips; and hips, away from hips. The joy we kept inside our chests is now the joy we split.