When we die and they cut us open they’ll find the fat from the fries we ate at one o clock in the morning congealing in our spent arteries the bass from the gay nightclub misted with sweat and cologne vibrating in our stiff bones the sangria we drank like water in our first apartment adrift in our drying blood the kisses from strangers deep and feverish imprinted on our cooling lips everything we hoped and dreamed in the dying days of teenagedom painted on the caves of our skulls the thud of fear as the thunder chased us home from St. Laurent echoing in the quiet chambers of our hearts.