Chris Clayman finds sleep most important.
Who broke for the trees at the first red-and-blue sign of trouble? Who half-suggested, bottle in hand and cops on the trail, that we could just leave you for dead? Who was nuts enough to think that drinking at an abandoned prison was poetic? Who was still giggling at the way you had pronounced "forty" like you were a character from a bad novel? We came looking for you the next morning and there you were in repose underneath the brush. In the car you seemed alright! We saw the heat lightning, counting out one, two, three, four, mile, thunder.
It’s as though I need a girl who knows her current events, catching her peeking over some creased worn copy. We’d be a slow burn, filling in the hours with weather forecasts and Nielsen ratings. Every night over the phone we could run through the obituaries. And maybe on our first night together she could lean in close and whisper something about a recently deposed dictator and I’d laugh and trace outlines of the Balkans on her stomach. Under the covers, I’d finally spill my thoughts on nuclear disarmament, and she’d pull me in like no morning edition ever could.