so I'd gone past that point where I said I'd never return, right all the way around to my origin and then down below it, but if I were a spherical, you would've caught me.
I live backwards through a patch of glow-bugs. and the first time I saw you, your eyes wouldn't open all the way.
well, I could sit and watch you sip your coffee, call the milk sarcasm and the sugar pride. triple your devils and set them on fire, keep your mouth pursed and covered with mine.
I woke up in the afternoon, after you had gone, felt my hair arranged on the pillow as if you were never there, half damp and dried in curls the shape of your fingers.
described my body like it was made of newspaper, took all my flaws and taped them over. my veins may be spiderwebs under the surface, your fingers can skim but never reach under.
and I am worthless, fingers running over my forehead like it's a river and when you smooth the wrinkles, I fill you in.
and so we're connected, through the back alleys and sidewalks, a thin shimmer rippling from my hips to your wrists and back again.
and when I left home it was the passing through a canvas, all little pieces caught in stray fibers and the hopeless fraying, and I am pointless.
so I will stand behind you in the dimming streetlight, name one shoe eclipse and the other forgotten. the laces are frayed, you're doused in shadows and our legs are trembling all the way down to the ankles.
I met you on an elevator, going upwards with every button pressed, and later I heard you say that when our eyes met the cables dropped, but you were always a bit sentimental and preferred strawberry milk to chocolate.
and when I'm past full of restless and you're gone, I name the furniture and dance until my lungs ache and pretend like I'm not alive. but you never liked it when I was morose, so I hide the memories between my fourth and fifth knuckles and pretend to paint my fingernails.
I used to be a ballerina in a music box, and before that you didn't exist and so neither did I. if you ran away with the rhymes, I'd still have the rhythm and we'd share the iambic pantemeter.
you wrapped me in shiny blue paper and toted me around 'till the magpies got me. and then I was hidden under layers of tissues and your down comforter.
but I had run away so I could never go back, made a promise with the sparrows and october. so for the first four dates you would've kissed me, but for the chappedness of my lips; and I would've known you, but for the lingering transparency.
and you're more asymmetrical than parallel, one day writing all over me in a felt-tip pen, and the next washing off all the the smudges.
I'm never too flawed for the perfectionist, a crown of holiness and deception in your dark hair; and when my eyeliner smudges you call me pretty, then tell me to forget it.