inside surfaces; a couplet affair of
mess and lost movement,
what small safety is left to believe in
can't make me or
you listen:
desperation makes soft
rainfall outside seem like
splinters,
chopsticks neither of
us would bother split,
anyway.

and now i
'm drunk and
now, i can't figure
out
how
softness works (am i weak and formulaic?),
or how i've
switched heartbeats
to some small
distance that won't capitulate.

capitulation would be far too easy,
of course.

how built up speculation,
inevitably in isomorphism
to your sweet ruffled hair,
to another lover,
who won't care anyway,
(will she?)
wines and dines my
foolish mind.

is all this pursuit futile?

just;
please care for me,
new darling, you,
as anyone in rainfall,
or tomato juice, or;
basically:
i need
all the ******* help in the world,
right now.

give me something.
anything.

dying for new light,
i managed to set sights on
oceans or
footsteps abroad or
just not feeling like this,
if that's ok?