The story is gritty and sensual and beloved.
The story is the feeling of sitting naked in bed after having sex, the only voices in the dark the glowing tip of the cigarette and the dusty smears of ash on the sheets.
The story is the want behind the denim and the cotton and the smell of birchbark burning; layer after layer after layer layer layer.
The story is the coy smile and the fleeting red touch of fingers on neck, the rouged whisper no one else hears.
The story is pissing in the dirt behind a cabin in Maine, is wincing and zipping up and hoping the pain isn't something with a name.
The story is living and fucking and dying, is living and not fucking and dying all the same.
The story is you, me, our masks, our underwear, our false discretion and red-rimmed sleepless eyes.
The story is what you told your best friend but not your mother.
The story is death death death dressed up in vigin sheets.
The story is your chaste come-on glances and your white calves, America.
The story is...is....