And oh, as I am
stirred
into your fried rice, I
can think
only of the myriad ways in
which your arms are not my
arms. Twin bikes on
balconies are criminal,
but a swirling breeze reminds
flags to keep
watch over construction
sites. A Sunday evening
view not unfamiliar
to you, but you drink up Los
Angeles and shower somewhere
with space
for a cat, melting knots out
of your tangles and dangling your hips from my
infinity window in ten-
second star-spangled
clips. I pinpoint
ankles, for my consideration for passive mass
amusement. How truly our
radars must differ; I monitor a
lone blip from
multiple angles, document
its blinks
and quivers. The mind convulses
with thoughts of how little
it is thought
about, ill-equipped to handle being the second
runt of the litter. You do not, I
am told,
work
for tips, here is
one anyway: I gave your Galaxy a
name
and came to grips with back-
breaking cheerleading, percussive and
muffled. I scream into the
window; your frozen
mockery slips; your teeth are
reborn in
the shape of inner
peace. Your smile is getting
thinner, I think, and
shiver. I blink
and quiver.
Leave a Reply