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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Impressions

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.

Bring Me Joy

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.