I li(o)ve in the city now

You said you were drafted
and I
misunderstood.
For a fleeting second I almost thought
that I could pull you out of my drafts, polish you, and publish you.

My fingers are just
a concept.
My mind,
a theory.



(my skin:
papyrus)

-
-
you are not special
you are not special
you are only
my imagination.
you are not my foundation, fixation, frustration.

you are fire flirtation.
pupil dilation.
tablet temptation.

closed circuit consideration.
and this is all you will ever be.
you were never my medication.

you are not special
you are not special
the mantra is *******

so we pour salt on slugs and watch them shrivel away
'cause you used say, "let's be human here."

disappearing was never our forté
but we could make it his.

but really i was always too afraid to say
"be my tonight and you'll be my tomorrow"
and i don't know how long forever is but
we can find out,
right?

I ask you not
to step on and snap this silence
that the city bus creates
humming gently into a permanent
tread mark.
A footprint of
the squinting spark.






Silence!
Speaks to everyone.

Sitting, I
see a spider married to air. I
wonder what it'd be like—
creating something only I
can see. And then I
realize. I
already know.

you are a beautiful little box at the bottom of my screen.
and somehow i am always shocked
when you want to talk to me.
the first thing i remember you saying
involved naked women and steak
and we were
twelve...
you're more awkward
than anyone i've ever met
and
the way you carry yourself speaks of unfamiliarity
with everything
and i feel like two planets trying to smash together
to make one
when we talk
because somehow
we never get
our point across...

...but
i
spent several years of my life loving you
a quiet little box
on the bottom of my screen
and you spent several years
loving a girl
with the prettiest feet
i ever saw

...i feel ok about this now.

dave,
i would make you pancakes
but instead i wrote you this poem.