Adapt, light of my life, fire of my loins, the reason I’m on the sex offender registry. My sin, my soul. Aa-daa-pt: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth, if you tried real hard. Aa. Daa. Pt.

He was Mike, plain Mike, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. He was Mikey in slacks. He was intoxicated at school. He was Michael on the dotted line. But in my arms he was always unconscious.