You walk around naked with a strawberry hickie pinned to your waist, smoking my cigarettes, leaving welts on my lips in my sleep, not caring that I am so very quiet.

Maybe you think we have this entire summer vacation to marker lines in red and memorize all the different roadways to the beach? As I count how many running footsteps there are to the door, wishing I could rig a megaphone in the space between a your ribs, and hire a tired gang of stuck-up linguists; unshaven but solicitous to translate the spate.