sometimes/ it is hard to inhale through this mess of standing sentences and polite posture; the blue of a background and proud dimensioned paper – when it should be blue ink on you and i. the words here are selfish and greedy and angry, they throw darts and smile with emphasis but the ones i write with you are like f eathers and drowned beneath the corners. i want to rearrange them flip their coy glasses and fill them with warm water but i do not think my english teacher will corroborate and the magazines say no. my heart thickens like yours and i worry for the words because isn’t it hot where they are? aren’t they hungry or thirsty without their ribs? the pen shop is just across the street i want to tear them from dusty shelves and online guides and put them in our notebook without commas. they do not know spaces and i think - stuck in history it must be lonely;