How thick is this noise and will it moisturize the pain in my throat which gasps and splices me into tiny jagged selves.
I feel like this:
as I listen to the northern forests of Canada
And I contemplate fingers thrusting against guitar strings, which are far less demanding than humans.
There is nothing left to feel, so dig shadows out from inside wall and learn the coordinates of conversational spackle.
I have memorized your day. The weather is beaded and sweaty. How much smaller can we insist our talk to be?
How about amused. Can I feel amused.
I’d like to feel devoured. Can I feel devoured.
Will you write a poem with me/ will you sit beside my scars and tell me about the last time you wept due to the brilliance of semi-colons and peanut butter sandwiches/ ask me to sing you to sleep even though I forget the words/ remember that dessert carries far more importance to my day and ask me out for a supper of ice-cream/ make love to me on bed of New York Times and let’s see what happens when the ink exchanges mediums/ ask me about my day before it begins/
I’d like to feel sober. Can I feel sober.
No: I’d like to feel heard. Are you listening.