I still feel your face, against hands that have
never graced you. you burn
patterns in my cheeks, my twisted spine and
shirt collar white, contrasted with black
and I don't know you. and I don't know
you, with shadow tickling my palms and
feeling smoke fill my lungs, imaginary
seeing your static and unkempt, stupid stupid hair
(jesus christ do you ever wash it but that's cute)
(seriousness in clover and dust smoke, bicycles and
bags from other bags, from jeans frayed and torn with
same shirts with holes but I've grown to smile)
asides aside, you were never one to question but
how would I know that I just
assume, assume and remove myself from situations
imaginary, brutal, intensity soft and slow like piano keys
against my callused fingers, out of practice out of line
barre chords and nylon instead, uselessness
and kitsch, I'm eclipsing, something I despised but
would you like that. you wouldn't I guess, you
wouldn't. I guess. I don't know you. I don't
know you. imaginary, acerbic with shining dark
eyes, turbulent ocean and icy sky clash for fleeting moments
you ask me to repeat things and I comply, wanting you to
be satisfied with stripes. jeans with frays and tears, same
shirts, black with white.
