periwinkle
pleas, the moving day
(with lots of postcards promised)
runs hollowly aground
for the look in your eyes belies my thoughts, my tongue to tell a shallower tale
so
i'll miss you
i'll write
i promise
your satisfaction not nearly guaranteed, you grunt
your smile for me is tissue paper
mine for you, homeless.
in the future, we comb our hair with rusty pears
juice of sticky oxidation bathes
this time capsule of waiting woe
in high, fake voices
acknowledgement, in addition
but discomfort is an artist's deepest desire
you share.
taking turns i despise and lower my vision
your vision
i cannot dress myself against
{soft anger}
whoever thought this up i dream
must spend more time thinking than it would appear
whoever dreamed this up i think
washes their hands like i do
once and again
and again.
this is not to say we gain from our habits
so
let's drop
soft anger
to mar the vitality
is not something measurably beneficial
and i am a scientist
who takes pulse