part one is where i said "if we don't handcuff ourselves together i am going to lose it."
i said, "if somebody could just clean all that ***** out of you we would probably weigh about the same. if we looked in a mirror at the same time there would only be one reflection. if we lie at the same time we'll just be lying together, physically and mentally. and what could be better than together?"
part one and a half is where things get out of hand -
hands covered in finger-paint and hands that forgot to wash themselves in the aftermath of many a sticky situation. hands that held mine and hands that held yours, hands that couldn't be evidenced no matter how hard any arithmetic teacher tried and hands that wrote about every sketch artist but never any criminals.
part two and i'm hanging myself with an iPhone charger, hands wrapped around swan neck - bird girl messy hair tiny hands girl bushy eyebrows cross-eyed ocean eyes girl between life and death
- and solemnly stepping over that mysterious dining-room table on your front porch. my last words have something to do with Jackie Chan and i whisper
"nobody ever saw a cowboy on the psychiatrist's couch."
Part Three is exactly that: three. welcome to past present and future, i say. can i take your order and can you hold my hand and you do know that meat is bad for your heart, right?
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we sat shut-eyed and snickering and reaching our hands into a crumpled brown bag labelled "Fatal Flaws". "no tradesies" said the big man. you and i unknowing one another, laughed unknowingly. your slip of paper read "superiority complex" and mine said simply "inability to love" and i thought about how good our tragedies would look together, how our stars could align in all the melancholy we both believed in.
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