Loser

Cellophane wrap or sealed pack or paper bag: clutch me. Try not to drop me.

It, this, crept like damp from the doorway until there was mould along the skirting.

I consciously partook in phone calls and friendings and 56,000 FB messages.

A lie would be I was absent for it. I was absent very little of it.

And now, history book months later, all I want is that wheezing breath next to me.

Hearts suck. Seriously. I mean.

hate you

I Stayed Awake For 4 Days

Jack thinks I’ll forget, that he can pick up a year from now, two years later, with only crimes erased, erroneous decision-making, so all positives become fateful, like both knowing the words to Stay by Lisa Loeb or reading the same play once or dreams about men living in air pockets between the waves and water, and a smoke trail between tongues like string for torturing and last night’s drinks lacing today’s t-shirt and gravel stabbed in soles from long walks home post 2 a.m. and an absolute uncertainty in the questions asked of you, because, “Will you move?” drunk isn’t, “Move in with me,” is it? But apparently, Jack says, not knowing the intonation well enough to understand the actual meaning of it is a steal destiny sort of a move which fucks up end points and is the reason he left in the first place or didn’t re-ask, or definitely ask, or make clear or sober for a second to say, “Come with me now.”

Face Time

When everyone else is dead, let’s Facetime, forget that they mattered once, and the week long crush, that might have been a month, won’t become a regret now they’re gone, and the miles that matter to us are inflicted moves that graduate, completion and win, committ, and I’d pour credit into petrol if it meant we were seconds closer than four hours, that didn’t involve trucks and trains.

My face is a rectangle bed stick, like sleeping together, this is.