A boy on the tracks is better than a boy in traffic, a kiss on the mouth, bite marks inside the wrist. Oh my god, you’re doing it again. You’re making a whole thing out of this. Our bodies, dancing under the lamp light, our bodies spread out in a cold room, lying flat on the carpet. Window frames with too much power. That terrible winter, we pulled the dead moths from the lightbulbs, blackened and smoldering, everything wanting to escape. My skin knotted, and threaded through with fish bone, a thin line of blue across the throat. I never knew how to lose gracefully, but I think I knew how to hold this. The lightning outside, the brilliant streaks of gray in the glass, the boy who couldn’t speak, afraid the moths would fly from his mouth, and the two hands gripping his throat, both with a name.