You

I dream of collapse, sponge-like, extruding sympathies, misinformation, love. A funnel web spider, damned to be where he is come Heaven or all the world’s children. You don’t believe me anymore. There is no wisdom in it. You leave me untouched and yet paid attention too, discriminated like a sore, amended.

You are my cardinal points. Everything was you, interred, breasted, silly like a flame. Who cares for it anymore. I have been brought back to some other eden, no mark just these clothes and the doubts you wear when you look at me, yes, I see you, and now I wear them too.

You don’t take the car you say you’ll walk but your brother comes, too busy both of you to say goodbye, hello, but time I guess for other words. I feel him in our bed. Behind the kiss I get when you come home, holding some part of your attention away with a gay look, a needle sewn through your grin, but I am still week from you leaving. You are my rock to throw, my egg to crack on your own face, dried like I am in the same sun of all this bullshit scrutiny, all this calculation and intellect conjoined, post mortem. I should have given you everything, held onto you while you screamed, dragged you down into the inertia of that debt. I should have grown upon you in every sickness. You would have loved me more then and hated my work less.

I pass you twice a day now. There is no one in your car, not even you.