Ridiculous that I should spend all this time with a headache. That I should miss anything. That I should console myself with writing. Ridiculous that I should avoid certain streets because I’ve seen you in them, after the fact, which means that I’m invoking you which is ridiculous. I hate getting close in the first place.
How long has it been? Not long at all you might say, and I’ll run up Hancock St. to off myself. Then what do you call the ten people that I’ve been, one of whom was cynical enough to summon you?
You are infuriatingly good. I am the cold North, and you are South. When we lived we always raced, and never ate, always drank, never fucked, never talked, just exchanged all the eye contact in the world. Then you asked me if I’m real,
But it was me who was obsessed with your silence, manic about it. Does it make sense that I would text you so you wouldn’t respond? Just nod me into existence.
We let that last silence push us out of the compass rose, and I ridiculously have no way of knowing you down there.
Is there ever any noise in the South of our world? Are there berries, or thoughts of me?
Maybe my mistake was giving myself up in the first place, because I tried to be a part of your space. I understand it’s not alluring when they want you, too, but that time I had a nightmare I was so embarrassed that I pretended to sleep while you held your forehead to mine. As if the antidote to torment involved breathing in your air. As if it was an emergency to calm me.
I only think of you in perfect ways.
I had never been absolutely nice to anyone before you.
My memory of you is independent of me.
Just that we shotgunned beers made a fire broke and entered never ate never fucked snorted coke to read poems to hear poems to hear music of which you knew the best of--
Ridiculous that I should remember anything else. At least to the south there’s always Rockaway Beach, if in our compass heaven we shant meet.
You are infuriatingly good. I am the cold North, and you are South. When we lived we always raced, and never ate, always drank, never fucked, never talked, just exchanged all the eye contact in the world. Then you asked me if I’m real,
But it was me who was obsessed with your silence, manic about it. Does it make sense that I would text you so you wouldn’t respond? Just nod me into existence.
We let that last silence push us out of the compass rose, and I ridiculously have no way of knowing you down there.
Is there ever any noise in the South of our world? Are there berries, or thoughts of me?
Maybe my mistake was giving myself up in the first place, because I tried to be a part of your space. I understand it’s not alluring when they want you, too, but that time I had a nightmare I was so embarrassed that I pretended to sleep while you held your forehead to mine. As if the antidote to torment involved breathing in your air. As if it was an emergency to calm me.
I only think of you in perfect ways.
I had never been absolutely nice to anyone before you.
My memory of you is independent of me.
Just that we shotgunned beers made a fire broke and entered never ate never fucked snorted coke to read poems to hear poems to hear music of which you knew the best of--
Ridiculous that I should remember anything else. At least to the south there’s always Rockaway Beach, if in our compass heaven we shant meet.
11/9/2020 8:50PM