Piecing together a story with timestamps
from letters you published, and
clues raining down like hammers,
(which is to say, at first dangerous, and then
amnesia-inducing, leaving me certain
I was delirious all along)
you asked me “what kind of person are you?”
and I hesitantly shrugged,
“whatever kind you need me to be, if only
I can.” If only
I can.
I can be a mirror,
a reflection,
a deflection,
a misdirection,
an inter-introspection
asking only what has already
been asked before, rapid-fire
and firing faster, until it shatters
like
“what kind of person are you?”
and
“what do you see when you look at me?”
and
"how can you see what's looking at you,
if you didn't first know to look to see?”
and
"what if we run out of things to say
or questions to ask?”
and
“how many bites does it take
to get to the centre of a person?”
and
"if I promise there's no venom in my fangs
could I bite into you?”
and
I wonder what you taste like.
