I’ve Grown Attached To Your Thinking

You think there’s revelation, altering us both because we’re in the same multipack. I guess our expirys match, or something, even if you’re way old, and when you say, “It’s fine,” it’s not fine because the only thing better is a stranger lying. I wish you were a catfish plethora, 6 people operating the same account so it’s always online. That would explain how you know what to say. Because, like, as it is, you spend days just thinking up a winning sentence, right?

But there’s just one of you. And you’re a dick.

There’s no satisfying answer, only, how can I sustain this many strands? I don’t read but, if I did, how’d I choose which book to finish out of the shelf stack, apocalypse-ready, except it isn’t food, so where’s the use? What’s the good in paper? Say, “You mustn’t know how I feel about you,” though I’m sure we said it, in person when we shouldn’t, and online, all starred out, on blogs, an investigator field day, matching IP addresses to the worst declarations ever, all 7 years late but, like, real, which is worse, I think. I miss doubt like a Lindsay Lohan laugh line.

Nothing happened. It’s not that. It’s the not happening, actually, being so available, droppable, how at home, achievements are glossed over like junk mail, no special offers, just my name and TV’s more attractive. And I’m sorry it hurts every time I try find a way to do a thing. But there’ll never be right, a right, and conjecture says we want the same things and the questions your friends ask I’d answer the same. But does it matter?

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Say I’ve Crossed A (NaPoWriMo #6)

The playback footage of five years
six ago
reminds me and I ask you
interloper
documentary documenter
if he’s changed.

You say, “I don’t know, Pam.
You all have, I guess.”
I’m trapped in pull-back moments
of what was
feel every culpable inched nerve
of almost.

Tarantino in that video shop job
each tutorial second
of must-watch
pre-empts a connoisseurial grab
and you’re ready to take now
Brian.
crossed

I Hope That You’re Together, Somehow

I know that whether you are or you’re not isn’t text book, nor will it be if my kids get school taught, but that’s decades off. By then, we won’t collect your chin shavings in zip-lock sandwich bags, post them for sale on eBay. Or get your address purely to pick over your bills and your old milk. If you drink milk. Your diet’s a lesser sought fact than it ought to be.

And I’ll replay any almost second of you kissing somebody, analyse the tilt, shake science of it. I’ll search for synonyms for the word ‘enter’ and the best I’ll get is penetration. You were thinking it, but it was blanketed by safe words like ‘vehicle’ and ‘toaster’.

I’ll explain every blurred album shot as multi-grain bread and, “I saw him, close up, and shadows were ornaments, Christmas tree hung on his cheekbones, and I rubbed ’til each wish was Amazon bought, until privacy was a fuckable luxury.” He is.