There is this image stuck in my head,
a body laid bare,
slowly examining it's own features,
how the bones don't fit in the perfect 90 degrees,
though what a figment of self to call out how well,
                                                   I,
fit into the 'in between,'
I may,
                                                  no,
I am sure that the person to whom you are talking to is...

And that's just it,
like this **** mark on the page that I can't see, even though it's
                                                write
in front of me,
how well can we read when we are distracted by jumping images mixed in with soft spoken words,
and the promise that (we're)(you're) not insane.
(next page)
I should be noting that in this piece not everything will be written as it should be.
Nor will it be read with any prior knowledge.
Dag nabbit though a way some normal people say it
                                                    ****.
The point is I forgot what we were talking about.
there's that smell of ash and bone again,
smooth to the touch,
the way the pen can crawl and curl as well as the smoke does between our lens,
it is again my  perception that deceives.
Just a jot on the page.
just a note in the beat... simple and so sweet,
the fascination that there is someone,
                                                    yes
­lets make this personal,
there is someone that you want.
So beg and beg.
I mean there is this juncture where the harder and harder you think you will ever get to understanding this,
is to believe that there is a prism and within is how well things can or can't be distinguished.
I am finding it hard to feel comfortable this way,
as in I am sorry I made you feel that way,
                                              What!
        ­                                       Way!
that way yes it's all in our heads,
but that's okay yes yes in order to learn to breathe.
with me...
                  In...
                         Out...
                                   Breathe.
                                                  In...
­                                                         Out...
                                                          ­         1-2-3...
let's count on our hands,
fingers?
either way that's not what I was going to say,
and why wait?
what the hell are you doing?
are you trying to trick me?
Get me to believe that for on'y the count of one two three,
I mean 3 seconds,
I was not in me?