Will you still love me if I melt before glass girl figurines or turn astronaut in your unfinished pink room. You’ll lose herself in early morning street fairs, in the forever-lad aesthetics behind bubble eyes, in EuroBeat stations I forgot to turn off. In the middle of the night, you will wake. I might never. You’ll dance Para Para with shadow hands. Or perform wolf-whistles and tongue thrusts at a sliver of shy moon. You’ll protect me from city girls stronger than I. For breakfast, you’ll serve me soft vegetables and the part of yourself that is no longer fleshy. .
Kyle Hemmings lives and doodles in New Jersey. He was dropped off by a stork and landed on some drunk’s roof in Piscataway. He’s been lost every since, but rich in wandering spirit.