curvature


you feel me as you feel the curvature of the earth
which is to say, not at all

i reconcile with this. or at least, i attempt in my own way to reconcile with this. included in this endeavor are acts such as trying to fake out gravity and resisting the change of the seasons (on snowy days you’ll see me standing at what appears to be your horizon [for yours is not the same as mine] wearing my bermuda shorts)

but on days when i stand in the kitchen and remember
standing in your kitchen sipping coffee
from a misshapen blue and brown glazed clay mug
(the details are of such importance)
i thought you touched my elbow
i thought you touched me

[touch/feel]

which sounds more romantic?

we feel pain.
can we also touch pain?

(i don’t have an answer for you either. i suggest we both sleep on it, on top of my body, and wake in the morning with clarity and of course, more coffee. i thought i knew what it was to want something from inside myself, rather than outside myself, thought i knew what it was to demand a certainty from myself. i thought i knew alot of things.)

you feel me as you feel raindrops hit your body
when you’re already underwater.

i have only swam naked once, in the middle of an octagonal swimming pool lit by weakly refracted light. i was careful not to touch you. we dared each other, though i didn’t really have to dare you, you would’ve done it anyway, with or without me. it began to rain.

draw me a map that leads to nothing
sing me a song that sounds like nothing
for no thing
is beautiful
nothing

25,000 miles and then rest. i started this journey on my own, but sometimes others come and walk with me for a while. then melt away. no one has ever touched my elbow in a way that made me remember. no one has ever touched me in a way that i can remember. and i want so badly to remember.

i am the bullet that will pierce your thigh.
they will not be able to get all of me out of you.
i will be the stain inside your bone when they pin up the pictures to the light.
then will you remember?

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