they're nothing alike, but they both rejected you in similar ways and that means that they're more alike than you'd like them to be. parallelism is everywhere and try all you want you can't avoid the syncretism of the universe, the constant assimilation and recreation, the mundane Phoenix, no ashes but still - rebirth. you know if you listen to drake right now, tucked under the covers and spooning the pillow like a lover liable to leave, you will be sad all night, possibly through the morning, bleary-eyed in chemistry and barely aware in rhetoric; you didn't do the assigned reading and haven't started looking at apartment leases yet. my roommate's shoulder is healing and mine is just now beginning to ache; parallelism is everywhere, and try as I might, I can never seem to outrun it.

how eager we are to forget
where we came from,
as though we weren't
dirt beneath God's
meticulous manicure mere
fractional eternities ago.
you stopped talking to me
just days ago, but
it feels like epochs;
time dilates in strange
manners, it truly is alien.
there are civilizations
that simply do not
measure time; things happen when
they happen, and that
is that. foreign concepts and
foreign languages slipping across
the tip of my tongue, while
foreign tongues work their way
into your every orifice.
I'm laying in bed, last night
was a bust, I drank a
little bit of whiskey but
not enough, it rained but
only briefly, and I
did not have fun but
I cannot complain;
at least I don't need
you anymore.

burnett's in the bloodstream now,
his cheap strawberry liquor
cheapening my strawberry kisses by
increasing supply in the absence of
appreciable increase in demand;
Economics 101, taught by the
professor in the tweed jacket
with the leather elbows.
you say you want to
practice black magic, and I'm
so down; god you're so hot.
I just want you to kiss my back and
cast a spell on me,
but you've already done the
latter, and you will
never do the first.

I am drunk and ensconced in
layers of
bedsheets and blankets,
delirious, dreaming of
You. if only-
if only You were here, to be
entangled in my
arms, constricted under the
comforter, searching your feelings for
love for me while we
use ectodetectors to
search for the ghost in the
machine.

we had potential,
-kx, and with respect to
x, *******.
we could've been
a masterwork,
Fields of Rapeseed, 1883, painted
in Prague, oil on
canvas.
but no,
you had to be
Mr. ******* Fantastic,
stretching yourself thin and
stretching my patience
again and again like
so much taffy to be made
palatable.
I have always been
difficult to stomach, even
at the best of times,
and you thought you could be the
Zeus to my Europa, whisk me
away and act like it'd all be okay.
but you didn't understand,
I was Europa, but
not the myth, the moon,
and I desired nothing more than to
drag you into my orbit and
drag you down to your demise.

I woke up this morning,
- well, last night, it's 4:30 AM so
where does that count - phone
on the floor where it rolled from my
sleep-slackened grip right off the bed,
sheets drowning in sweat; they smell like
me, and I am feeling nauseous.
my spine is curved around a
particular puddle of sweat, the
one I awoke in; it's still wet,
but it'll dry out; I have to
put these bedsheets in the wash,
use three times as much detergent,
maybe spray em with Lysol first.

but getting rid of the sweat-soak
won't get rid of the
nightmares of you.

hit my cellphone in the morning
and tell me you love me;
who else will love my
frozen skin at 6:15 AM,
my eyes glittering, awash in
LED bliss.