There is no echo, no brain here;no sight of brain
We talked like we were friends too tired to admit we hadn't been and too tired to remember why we shouldn't be. "It's like this, 'cept its not, ya see?" Logical traction slipping between all ten of my fingers. "Shut up, babe," she mumbled, her head against the window against the road
This is how it went: shit happens and you happened back. But now, when you are the happening and all that has happened keeps happening through you...how do you settle a dust cloud that rides your breath? Things without meaning tend to gather significance all the more fiercely. Sometimes I cannot turn potential to action because I feel, somewhere in the transformative formula, there must be something that allows the reconciling of the new idea, new action, with very absurd but persistent old ones.
Sometimes I don't know how to produce comfortable small talk because I don't know how to stop your screaming, which is normal, annoying, and terrifying at the same time. These ideas/actions have nothing to do with one another, and do not even share chronological proximity; but somehow, the jam up of one affects the other.
Because I have only the experience of reading of what happened to you to connect to what happened to you, it is difficult for me to actualize the fact of the event; in my mind, it is only as if you have gone to sleep until I can figure out what to do (as if something must be done) with the idea of you.
I have found the pictures you left for me. I have found the pictures I took from you. I have found your pictures found my pictures of you found you found me
now what?
pic pic pic pic
It's just as ugly as it sounds
I want to cover your memory with soft, sweet things
Dream thick, like we used to
Getting nowhere because our heads were so full of honey and
I miss you
and I'm terrified of you
I'm having trouble remembering what it is like to touch things besides eyeballs
Trust things that have mouths
See pornography and teapots as separate entities
small dark swells and spirals
