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.
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.
I figure when people have secrets, but I can’t figure the secrets out, what they are, which I guess is why I haven’t been recruited by a specialist government agency, why I never know a disaster’s going down when it is. I assess after, am an aftermath-wallower, understand the intracacies of disengaged looks, feel tension like frission between people’s lips. My job title could be ‘Eye-Fucking Expert’ but instead I settle for the minimum-wage sorts of fall-into jobs we own since the Millennium turned, which was a bad New Year for me, if the eve’s an indication of the coming year, of every coming there will be. And god knows, we’ve all predicted wrong.