[26 August 2019]
but the cracks in the mirror only belie something
deeper, more transient. I smell the smell of
you, of me, of us lingering in church pews and train cars and hardwood
floors, taking root, mingling with dust and dim sum and desire, feeding
off of sunlight and moonlight and whisky. Something strange grows here
iridescent, incandescent. A pursuit, a chase, a struggle to
find one’s own self in the lashing out against the bedframes and the railing
against the impenetrable
urge to find meaning, scrying a constellation as I connect the dots
between the hairs on your chest. And so a life is spent,
pushing into a deepness still unknown, stacking together principles
and ideals and clippings from men’s health fitness catalogues between
breakfast and noon. Your hand carves a crack between this world and
the next, keeping count of all the things I couldn’t see: a protein shake, a coffee cup,
a razor blade, a dirty sock, a calculator. Late summer sunlight catches the windowpane and
your glasses’ frame and writes your name in bold on the wall, bright and brilliant
and not mine.
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