a square of coarse fabric can feel like unqualified silk.

November 28, 2010 § Leave a comment

i want to write to him to make sure he is preserving the winter in a decent fashion:
beer, food, and blankets.
i bet his apartment is overheated.
i bet he doesn’t remember the poem i wrote about us and included in my final portfolio last year.
i remember now that i never showed it to him.
that november i was in love with the idea of the cold seeping. i was sick and my skin was stiff over bones that were envisioned less white. more blue.
i was thinking about my bloated stomach cradled against his.

how gross and moronic that i can feel furred flesh close to my collarbone
even at a time like this. i apologized on the phone. he said: you have no reason to be sorry. he was right. i wasn’t even almost sorry. i was embarrassed that i’ve been so embalmed. i was sad that i needed to shut my “no” off so we could share some dive bar static. i was sad that i woke up and smiled and had someone  who kept the film reel running recite back to me the mad lib that was the night before. who filled in all those ridiculous words!? slouchy verbs! tired chin poses!? retrospectively i was undertired and gazing at a star that had burned out– but clung to the skies’ memory.

how unfair to feel. how easy to mute the senses with binding impressions of others yammer. i have a suggestion: write it down and swallow it. put it in your skin to watch it fade. stay away from me or i’ll cycle these stale tasteless pieces back into something palpable.

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