And fear will fail. To turn you from the door, I have to make a room worth turning towards, or maybe that’s the story that I need to write another sonnet. When I’m done with stroking out the morning, there I reach for words to stick you with, a plastic form to hold the gluey paper in a shape. I’m still a boy and so are you, and stuff falls out our mouths in rapid streams of lines from movies, shows, and clips that raised us when the internet took on its tender role as parent number three. It slipped us drugs and said that’s it’s okay as long as we “just do it in the house where I can see.”