And we make grand gestures like it matters,
Like we are more than matter and if I tell you the same
Cockneyed stories over and over this time in the morning you will
Stay. Or the distance will become a nonexistent blimp on the surface of our
Own existence, I will exist within you, if I make grand gestures:
This will matter.
The overbearing distance between our physical bodies but our celestial minds.
I want to be real. I want to be real with you, be real with me,
Tell me the truth but tell me lies too,
Make me regret telling everyone who asks that the key is communication.
Is it communication or looking at someone
Someone bleeding on the ground, and still finding them fuckable,
As if Fuckability matters, as if Fuckability for fools is more than a need to
Touch base and touch **** like the world depends on it,
Like it is December Twenty First and the world is ending,
And we are millions of miles apart, and millions of words apart,
And nothing I have said yet can convince you or me that we are people who matter.
We matter to each other and it is scary to not know the confines of someone’s mind, wherein I float, wherein I remain stagnant as an F word,
Wherein I play charades to convince myself I am more than the men in my life.
I am Goodnight and Good Morning and please send me one more shred of light to hang on to, please give me the time of day, please let our states become one mass of existence, please make me Matter.

I am in a bar with more TV than artwork on its walls. This breaks my principal rule of bars, but I had to *** and the bar was open and I felt guilty using the bathroom without buying anything, so I am drinking a Blue Point Toasted Lager and trying to make sense of a sample chapter of Judith Butler's book Gender Trouble on my smartphone while a group of three to six drunk men a few meters to my left debates the relative fuckability of Meg Ryan vs Sally Field in the nineties or the eighties or sometimes both and this whole thing feels ironic and like maybe it could be a scene in an indie movie.

The debut of us, dear
our red carpet affair
hangs in solid crimson
all up and down the stares
Darling you do understand
I cannot keep you under
wraps? (the wrap party
is happening now,
between the cheeks
of my ***)
And the curtains part
(o boy!) and my legs part
(o joy!) dear Sir we had
total Fuckability (now
didn't we?)
I ever and always
deferred to you
the director of me
(what an awful job
but someone's got
to do it)
And when you said
"CUT!" and cut me
in two? that's okay-
I will make do
And when you said
"CUT!" once again?
That's okay, the half
of me will survive
with the all of you
(wondering how many
times I can be halved
and quartered and still
be there, under the half
the heel of your boot
black shoe)
You, darling
you