Five deep and dreaming of foreign bays, watching
the energy in creatures so much smaller than me,
holding in palms crescent-bent the realization that
some lives dwell within the imaginary lines we
convince ourselves ((and others)) exist, that some
don’t, and clasp the strobe of blinking before
blowing it all away.

In 20-odd years of romanticizing, nothing’s
touched tonight’s degree of Holy: violas, geraniums,
some variety of bleeding heart; the creaking porch swing
and buzz of alcohol spilling through channels between
the soft solids of my brain; secret smiles while speaking
code to the outdoor ceiling: I sure have a way of pickin’
’em & Time doesn’t believe in “fair,” just insists on
wrong decisions and the loss of ideals.

He lacks a favorite color, lacks the want for
one, and commutes in the faith that big words
contain the option of becoming undefined;
the light overhead corresponds with crickets,
unexpected bridges mending, one meal’s toothpick at
a time, but remember, remember to insist that the waiter
seat us in the grand hall since the smoking section’s grown
useless amongst the un-dead, and ketchup, an ounce-
and-a-half of orange juice, onions twice the size of the home
fries taste so, so much finer over faux-marble.

I owe so many letters they must rival dollars these days,
the stink of “real life” demands attention! Somewhere
in the split of these words across my cerebellum, you
hand-over-fist more reality, curveball cracking my
standby “only you”‘s spitting whisper-like “You know
fidelity doesn’t mean a fucking thing to me, right?”

Despite my recent flirtations with becoming an off-Broadway-
and-145th actress to convince a solid, heavy line and space
so white on the other side of the couples’ ampersand, hours-
fermented lunch rises in my throat in the knowledge that you
are nothing if not a truth-teller, so you mean this more than I
meant refinishing bedside bank, all-caps scripting CHINA
across the face — Should’ve thought ahead; Should’ve saved
those pennies for the inside; Should’ve spent them on Berlin or
India alone.

Excuse the fall from diction’s grace, but you understand this is
two years ago again, right? In lieu of mortgage-
marriage, you opt for culture-coverage over the love you claim
to wilt without. Only now the scar of my lips rests on 89%
of your skin — please trust that medicine helps little, if at all,
in erasing them, so when you corner-cling to your local instrument
collection and hideholyhide to maintain your mind and long
for navel-tethered nights, probability dictates my tongue tripped
in argument — no, agreement with one who hates the East.

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