I’ll never know what it’s like to marry Brad Pitt.
Which tennis player’s which.
What tattoo needles feel like under skin.
What Johnny Depp smells like,
if he’s pliable like Play-Doh
or rigid like his waxwork I photographed you next to.
If blasphemy’s the sin
I’ve been drummed with to think.
If I’ll outlive Chris.
If the world ends like a disaster movie.
If we even exist
aren’t fragments or figments,
computers or characters in
cancelled TV shows in permanent limbo,