J.A. TYLER
of paper He writes to her: I love you I love you I love you I love you. He writes to her: Come come come come come come come. He makes a bow of his tongue and presents his mouth as a gift, open to her hands, her fingers, waiting for the unwrap. He giggles. He is charming. He lusts. He is sick. He is drawing near to her and she is drawing away from him, and in-between someone else has drawn a full hand raised up at them, a wall separating the two, a parallel distance. There is paper and it is his arm, his arm is paper and he writes: You don’t mean that, say you’re sorry. She is not sorry. There is nothing to make her sorry. Her legs are not college-ruled. Her elbows are not hole-punched. Her face is not a margin. Her eyes are eyes with colors in them and looking. She is looking. She is looking in a magazine for pages. She is not reading. In the magazine there are none of his limbs. He writes: Give me back all that you took. He writes the book of her, of him, a sentence that goes: This is what you have made of me.
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