The feeling of being six inches behind my face, Off axis with my mouth, And askew from anyone talking to me. And I do this, the documentation of it, for myself I guess. But I do this for long enough and I can taste the lead in my brain. I am in love for the first time ever, Again. All of these pasts behind me are behind me, And so unseen. All of these things that I've loved are just Eyes and skin. Freckles and veins revealed to me, For the hundredth time. And I move ahead. These that we share, They are fresh and foreign... Forgotten. And when they are sticky and stale, Stolen, From each other, The theft is what pulls the past up over my shoulders and into my lap: A black, wet pile of slimey fruit peels. And reaching over this pile, Now, That's what I'm doing, I guess; Placing foot and hand carefully into the gaps between the damp decay, And pausing at some points when I brush past a familiar smell. There is some rot that feels like home. Reaching over this pile, Now, Moving close enough to feel you in my breath, In my nose, But not enough to look into eyes and see months and years inside of them. I don't want to feel them. We corrected ourselves, understanding that there's this desire to do the right thing, And to be seen doing the right thing. And I think that that got a little out of hand.
23