Is it movie cliché
that brains remember who we loved before war
prior to alien invasion?
Or is this fact
what we’ll face in 2064, 3018, when the world
is no longer ours?
Tom’s who you’d pick to convince
he was it, forgot
when they wiped every memory
with purse-size sanitizer
and any dream with a face like yours in it
and in a past-life or this one
just, like, decades ago
you were together
and if he’d re-ring it
put another on it
you’d save the world and shit.
When that girl pretended to be me, I thought I’d lost you and I did and I conceded easy defeat because I had someone to sleep with already and that’s the epitome of greed: wanting two people as yours. But who set the limits and the rules, deciding monogamy was the ultimate and only? And I’m not talking polygamy, because don’t marry if you’re not set on somebody.
But like sexuality, love’s a sliding scale and like the abacus in the primary colours they had at nursery, maybe there’s a slip day to day and we’re not concrete like the Cullens or how society says we should be. I resent yes, no and maybe options. What about I don’t know, tried once, all of the above, tomorrow?
And when she was here I untied each of my guts that tangled like earphones in handbags or string left to its own devices or spaghetti, but that’s slippery and possible to deal with with a fork.
And I made deals, wished, prayed to every obstacle or god or figurehead or pillar or statue or show or star or celebrity or text or eye or undersole or beer glass, cigarette butt, finger dial that I could. And I didn’t get anywhere because that’s not a thing. It’s a fiction. A character played by Morgan Freeman.