I Don’t Remember The Total Conversation

Your name’s ingrained like Jonah in belly skin. There’s no script, or coercing, and I wish I’d remember more context, solid sentences, that tone resonated for days. But it doesn’t. And worst is to wake up, wonder if we meant any of it. Maybe we didn’t?

To call is the only thing better than feeling your pulse through t-shirt chest, super warm breath, stubble select. So I waste minutes; I have 7 left.

You wish other people had what we have. But what, concurrently, is that? Are we lucky or doltish? Will anything end how we predict?

I guess this is why taking notes in lectures is, like, recommended. Several of my organs would question if what I want is important. I know you’d say that it is. Feels selfish. Biased. I talk about tactics. My guilt is ten Hail Marys from alkaline. I’m basically acid.¬†And that’s how June sits.

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Only An Idiot

Jack says, “Only idiots leave,” so I leave to prove his theory or disprove it – just to see the look on his face.

He calls three days later to ask when I’m coming home. He calls once on my mobile, once on my landline, and I say, “I have a landline number and you found out about it. It’s been three days. Doesn’t that say that I’m serious?”

But Jack says brick’s not serious, metal is, and he’s prepared with a selection of metals, stones, solids, if I bring my case back, my bones home.

Second time around, or however many times it is now, I’m weighed by the weight of his convincing, bribes. I consider the lines ringing, digits being dialled and the people dialling them, but mostly it’s just wrong numbers, accidents, people you don’t know from Adam West.