Converse High

But it was a dense, designer dream–the Chanel, the Alexander McQueen like a diamond or a pearl set to fall from the corner of your god-kissed eye if you thought about sadness hard enough. The imperial ships rose out of the tide and I mistook them for the sun: when you, Captain said fuck and sneered at the camera, I thought of my sneakers scuffed with dirt and thought you meant it like a battle cry, that I could be enough as canvas, as sail, as an opportunity for art. But maybe you had meant it as reaching high, the way a hungry hand grasps at a flimsy skirt, as wanting the silk woven from my pain, as longing for the soft, French names to sigh on your lips, mimicking the fabric as it falls billowing over your skin. It is never enough: the crashing tide doesn’t staunch its want for the shore by finding it. My love, you have made a pirate of me.  

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