Our retracebale steps are MSN transcripts, manuscripts of lines wrought with get you somewhere which didn’t work. It took a year to etch, of incorrigible, courage of convictions, and then the night doubt of did I do, try, because I could and knew the answer before it because it was almost alterable and the teetering of it, the absolute certain/uncertainty of it was the replay warming like a microwave never hitting the goal first, because digits aren’t exactly predictable, even with cardboard directions. Your guidelines were elusive until vow time.
Reading back I ask for conversations with inbetween girls and my historical expandable foam is a chapter not an openable script on a catalogued storage disc, forgettable memories, a dream which stirs mornings, not entire days.
I can’t promise exclusivity, that Terry and Merry and John aren’t almosts on a site list I’ll comment and the back/forth is unmatchable film knowledge (yours), references not met (16 years long) and stand up to, stand up to me. Sectility you get, and every carve the others get on the internet, you can collect in a suitcase, bowl, and be segment keeper which you kind of are already, and the smartless of us, the absent and can’t quites, need only you.
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.
You think chemistry is quashable but you would think that. Qualifications for you are celebrity signature impersonations.
My impressions were gradual and I didn’t vomit you in the first three hours so you stuck and worked me off-kilter, or on to it. I’m torn between calling you legal and occult.
I heard a lot of Ouija board stories when I was small and my sister’s had a love/hate relationship with ghosts since she saw Casper and my Dad said he saw an old man at the end of his bed that disappeared with the light on.
At lunch, next day, he knew it was Bane.
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.
I figure when people have secrets, but I can’t figure the secrets out, what they are, which I guess is why I haven’t been recruited by a specialist government agency, why I never know a disaster’s going down when it is. I assess after, am an aftermath-wallower, understand the intracacies of disengaged looks, feel tension like frission between people’s lips. My job title could be ‘Eye-Fucking Expert’ but instead I settle for the minimum-wage sorts of fall-into jobs we own since the Millennium turned, which was a bad New Year for me, if the eve’s an indication of the coming year, of every coming there will be. And god knows, we’ve all predicted wrong.
You play a good game, better than me at that age, or you, because you’re acting and enjoying the pretence more than George Clooney’s thighs, Angelina’s eyes, Jack’s absolute reliance on Wrigley’s and vodka.