suddenly all the pizza grease songs
are about you. all
of my intrinsic, righteous habits
are a closed off vessel
of God’s deduction of you. seven
eighths of my day
are earned and spent by the
fraction, misusing
my imagination over your silence.
dear stranger,
you have stumbled on to a path not
destined for you to take. you
are turning circular tables, never
changing, do you not
see the irony in that?
i imagine you walking
my unfamiliar, light-devoid
road of the void in my experience
as a human being. you see, i am still
suckling and giggling
half-God at the idiots in weed school
and mediocrity is my forte, i’ve
been told; i know only,
how to walk the earth lightly, how
never to hint at your dismissal
and existential uprooting.
i am a door creak so quiet you don’t even move in your body
high. her sighing wakes you up; in her arms
i imagine you feeling
thinner and so,
so naked, just like me shell-shocking you
with my acute, unbearded
wisdom.
you deserve a poem, you need
to read them all till you peel misconceptions
off your skin and feel new again. you
must walk till your legs remember
walking the earth again, until your hands
remember really holding hers again.
i can hear the rustle of your news report past
opening in her unslept sunday morning hands
but stranger, i am quiet. i am watching her
cry over trivial, familial habits written
in the helvetica of your voice and she
is in awe, just like
i told you.
i told you;
your stories are now corporeal.
they swim in her mind classified carefully,
tearfully, under
“beautiful”. i am here too, but i suppose
that doesn’t matter now.
i am shared and distributed among
stories i helped tell, wiped to black
with thank-yous and moving on.
