26/03/10
So I call you to create a stopgap, and am surprised to find that you're crying. You start doing dishes noisily on the other end to mask the sound of your hurt. I'd forgotten that you cry, or that you can cry, even though you once did on my shoulder when you learned how I let you break my heart.
I will always turn "you" into "me." And then I will destroy the mutant synthesis. This is the romantic ideal.
I'm sitting in a parc around the corner from the buanderie, and I feel like a drug dealer because I keep checking my phone and I'm drinking a beer and it's like -10 and this seems like potentially the most paranoiac familial whitey part of this otherwise brown-scale neighbourhood. I wish I could paint, or even had a camera, because there are poplars defying bilateralism with much more stark, defiant symmetries and strange right angles, and, towering over the light that lights us all, a fir tree with needles of such crystalline grace as could only be the horked up and frozen-arrow phlegm of cherubim.
I sent you the wrong letter. Or, rather, I set you the right letter with the words in the wrong order. Maybe the environmental circumstances of time will sort the alluvium from the glacial till. Or maybe language is already the indecipherable artifact, lost to all those but historians of the quaint and heretofore impossible.
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I will always turn "you" into "me." And then I will destroy the mutant synthesis. This is the romantic ideal.
I'm sitting in a parc around the corner from the buanderie, and I feel like a drug dealer because I keep checking my phone and I'm drinking a beer and it's like -10 and this seems like potentially the most paranoiac familial whitey part of this otherwise brown-scale neighbourhood. I wish I could paint, or even had a camera, because there are poplars defying bilateralism with much more stark, defiant symmetries and strange right angles, and, towering over the light that lights us all, a fir tree with needles of such crystalline grace as could only be the horked up and frozen-arrow phlegm of cherubim.
I sent you the wrong letter. Or, rather, I set you the right letter with the words in the wrong order. Maybe the environmental circumstances of time will sort the alluvium from the glacial till. Or maybe language is already the indecipherable artifact, lost to all those but historians of the quaint and heretofore impossible.
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