I will feign expressions, impressions, emotions, complete your work and pay for dinner but I’ll never tell you truths and my father’s off limits and my eye sight’s a number I’m not near revealing and your dress size is a bet that I’d place if it doubled money or split it and I could create you. Instead I watch you squirm wishing I was the twitch, the instinct which moves you, instead of the air conditioning.
I didn’t expect, imagine or feel my way around, the way a boat’s in the water and you can’t tell the underside completely, even underneath it.
There’s an almost bite, a sentence quash, a lip string, and in work we gel like hair to a product invented for it that’s totally unnecessary but we pay and it works and it might.
Wax between fingers, a grease-cutting ability. A handle on 1980s video games that Wikipedia barely cradles.
I will take you unsafe places to see the corners of your eyes which, unexamined, are mistakes overlooked like A grades. We talked through every top set class because what’s less motivation than teachers saying you’re the best of the best of the best? I lost my potential like earring butterflies in swimming pools, clubs, toilet cubicles. Like best friends swapping in and out of favour, taking back gifts to bestow on another.
I am a catch, an understand your jokes, almost never late, catch who’s seen every episode of Frasier. And if that doesn’t impress you, when we’re snuck up on, filmed, photographer, fired or broken up with, I’ll find a way to your house or hotel room and watch whatever you watch when you’re alone. Even porn. Even that Paris Hilton one.
On TV they tell that you’re lying by blinks, mistakes you make stuttering, speech impediments be damned, it’s incriminating evidence alongside blusher, sweat, spit, finger tips grating against the skin of another.
My eyes are pinned and I won’t close until the entire paragraph is mouth-free. I’ll recite a line from a poem I wrote about you in high school – when you were a student and I was your teacher. I could even re-tell the story of us the way we’ll tell our children, without x-rated, cops, my nails scratching at bra hooks, slipping through the outlines of flowers on the lace that you’re wearing.
And what we will tell, lie-less, is a matter of opinion, an opinion matter.
You sleep first and the neighbours fucking isn’t enough to rouse you.
You think chemistry is quashable but you would think that. Qualifications for you are celebrity signature impersonations.
My impressions were gradual and I didn’t vomit you in the first three hours so you stuck and worked me off-kilter, or on to it. I’m torn between calling you legal and occult.
I heard a lot of Ouija board stories when I was small and my sister’s had a love/hate relationship with ghosts since she saw Casper and my Dad said he saw an old man at the end of his bed that disappeared with the light on.
At lunch, next day, he knew it was Bane.
Unexplored seconds and you write my dating profile because you observe better than other people, including girls whose bedrooms I sat in weekday nights, high school years. Difference now is, I don’t share easily, reveal crushes, potentials, because others claim first, and I’m not an Olympic speed, a rower, or an aging-slowly star with material and poisons capable of slowing time until it’s claspable and I lose you and we lose and we’re a well-worn dance we’ve watched on TV since 1982, more rehearsed than Communion we only ever got head pats, or blessed for, when all we want is bread.