i wish our grief weren't on display an obscene thing its legs are splayed wide open all our itches and bumps and their pulsating ridges caught mid-scream i wish it weren't this way, not to these pulled and twisted sounds and their pointed inquisitive rhythm i wish it weren't tonight- the night of exclusive sight and motionless words, it isn't time yet i find wishes are organless hollow sounds not unlike tonight i have stopped moving. still (i wish) i wasn't here.
LAST EVENING TONIGHT
it is strange, i have been imagining you speaking to me this evening, but it was really somebody else. it is strange, also, that i am writing you this letter-- even you would admit to surprise. i haven't too much to say, just- this is my shopping list: a box, a ladder, a horse, and an oasis.
and these finances bring you to my eyes, i mean behind my eyes and it is better this way and you are better off without this weight of words, without the weight of these words anchored within the cavity our blistered tongues keep reaching for to make sure it hasn't left, and to make sure it stings, and for the ritual of recoil.
we are immeasurable terrors removed from this night this bloated night, your farewell waltz.
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