I am taking a carton of spoiled eggs. Brown and contoured in my small, right hand. With the left, I am punching in the code to open your garage - 3787, enter. 
I will leave the light off when I egg your motorcycle. 
I will peer up to your window and remember climbing the stairs with you behind me, in a t-shirt.
I will throw egg at the cement wall. At the leather seats of your friends’ bikes. 
I will be smiling.
It will cross my mind to climb the fire escape. To peek in through the gated door and see if you are sleeping next to someone. I will egg the door, one way or another. I'll climb down with the empty egg carton pressed against my shirt. Then, walk or run to the beach block, remember being in junior high. Blink-182. Skate shoes. Pizza. Sour straws. The sweet numbness on the tongue. The subtler things too, like riding the bus over the bridge. Seeing Coney Island rise above the water and land, above the Irish cads in Breezy. I will take the bus to Brighton Beach, drink Russian juice, ride the Ferris Wheel. Think of you, cleaning egg. The slimy yolk between your fingers - knowing it was me.


We are in Arizona when I poke a cactus needle with my finger. 
At night we dance to country music in a bar room filled with old couples. You want to meet them, afraid otherwise, you will forget. We eat fried chicken sitting on the same side of a booth. Back at our tent, it is cold in the desert night; we don’t undress.


In El Paso, the wind blows too strong. Sand becomes small bullets. We eat Mexican meats in our laps sitting on the edge of our airbed. The wind blown tent wakes us up over and over, but we know where we are.


By the bayou there is a young boy and his father. They have strong Southern accents and talk about honey-bees. They cut the brush with a long machete and walk through. At night we think we hear a wolf growling, we are frozen for several minutes. I peak out, it is the old man in the tent next to ours, snoring.


We undress on our own blanket, on a bed, in a sleazy motel in Texas. There are cigarette burns on the toilet seat. We eat chips and many crumbs fall. In the morning I look out to see a cowboy hat and a big red truck next to a gas station.

I wake up covered in your pee, it is 95% water and it can heal a jellyfish wound. 


We are very young, this was many years ago. We sit on a roof, climb down a tree. We both have Jack Russel Terriers. Your family is a mess, everyone knows it. When I hear the snap or growl of a skateboard I whip around looking for someone.


Where are you now? What construction site are you working? Can I egg it, steal your hardhat? Bury it with the treasure at Lost Dutchman? Will you knock on the door of my family’s home; in the night, with your dirty backpack, a found disdain for alcohol, your insouciance shed like snake skin?
Or will you ride away on your egg-splattered motorcycle, only quietly, silently remembering, coping. Sharing none of it with anyone - so as to keep it from spoiling.