You say it’s all we have. Not us but, like, everyone. There’s no actual god, just these moments of total coincidence which make our feet rock and stomachs scrunch like cellophane wrap, which¬†tie us. We’re tied like turkeys with string.

I’m cautiously superstitious, if a person can be, total doubter, holding on to the tiniest hint there’s sparkle in chaotic disorder. Because all I’ve got is chaos, when you think about it. I’ve been trying to memory foam sink in it, but it isn’t working. The turmoil doesn’t get easy. It’s steady like water pressure: occasional tweaks make it work better.

This lady read my mind earlier. From small sentences, knew where I wanted to be, what I might do, that I was in ____. And I wanted to believe Serendipity badly. The movie. That crossed paths meant something. But I could never take it seriously. And star signs, drilled like religion, practically the brain blemishes, identifiable as fucked-up-ness. Who cares what compatible is?

If coincidences really mean something, what about dreams? Books don’t know, and the internet’s a misinformation plethora, But I want to know what my dreams mean. Because last night it was everyday, and everyone overreacted, but it was us and it was okay. And you held my hand momentarily. You took it. And I want you to keep on doing that. Would you do that again, please?

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Ellen Pompeo

When you’ve seen a lot of TV you know the choice between two people’s a life lesson we navigate trickily, and sometimes the choice is easy, I’m thinking McDreamy/McVet, and other times it’s complicated, the difference between rooms in a hotel block; an absolute gamble, a personal best, a stain on the inside duvet, a stonewall deputy, a blood blot under each sheet.


Not Calling You

We never thought our vows were invalid, got them officiated when pushed when it looked like the benefits we’d get from stapled sheets of Judge signed paper outweighed the convenience of paying for the service.

Since then I have lied to you, more than I did when we were dating or after we wrote our vows one night after changing our clothes. But the lies are not bigger than you seeing your wife and me or when you flirted with nurses in surgery and didn’t tell me about it.
We weren’t actually together then.

You’ll find the secret I’ve hidden in my belly button like accidental fluff I’m pretending I’ve not seen. Procrastination is a real problem for me. And it’s a thing you can’t un-know or lose, unlike god at all who is forgettable, distanced, a momentary fascination, like induced hallucinations or daydreams or dreams or stories or films or TV. Like you from slow angles like the floor.