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the real page-turner now in strange flaccid dreams found your ad in the observer, went by your real name: knew why you disapear sometimes. a few days gone, wordless and knew then the way you walked among them, how you sold yourself. found myself: i wondered about minding and not minding and what my place in all of it was. "i love you, but i'm afraid to love you." put the numbers two by two on sheets, made a list of pros and cons to keeping you, to letting you keep me. maybe i was just another unpaid trick now, always. in another you passed (another you past) a stack of pictures you had taken to me. i flipped through them (you have always had the eye for change) and kept seeing this one big lipped one. a fellow, i knew him then and there: a "sad sappy sucker" who cried a lot and you just stood by, one photo to another and then watched the next one over and you were kneeling before him taking him into your mouth (an age-old love affair) . i remember sitting there, wondering whether or not i should be jealous, part of me wondering if indeed the picture was old, or recent as yesterday's rain. the picture moved in front of me, like a short video clip: you were setting the camera to snap the picture and then walking to him, kneeling and taking him into your mouth. some things are on repeat forever. so i quaked back and put it altogether from a hundred tiny peices, building jealous, unkind or knowing and on... (turn-key life you handed me and i was drowning) eager sheets and taking you into my arms, but wondering, counting the arms that held you there before me, blind and wondering how many you faced from just this one angle and in how long. mind-eye marking calenders, turning pages from month to month, putting together math profile of your lips and quiet, calls only sometimes. lost myself a little, cried in the dark. and woke, streaming sweat and let it simmer all day, let it ride on and on- jazz cymbals of the symptomatic life. coasted throught eh hours somewhat eager so9mewhat falling apart and used tally-marks to predict the number of days i'd spend bent-brain over this and lonely as the wind in the desert. the best silences exist wherever you are. wondered how many times in how long you've seen my name and rolled the call and if it means a thing or two i'm not sure of. so i know that samson loved her knowing she could destroy him and my, how sometimes i know you just might be my delilah. alone. tired. WORKS. and leave it all alone and maybe it's best that way, maybe not thinking of you is a key-card for the quicksand of losing you, if such a place there and be, and coming. is it? another wine bottle floats off, one more cork in the compactor. page, a sells it all out of me, into you, here, a page spent and body limp: laying with you is all the god a man could need. isn't it? so it's easy to talk it out and spurt solemn when losing is only what once was yours and if you were, if you are: it's more than i sometimes deserve. actions leave lessons on the sheet where tears belong. one more parliament light cure-all and then to bed, all of it out of me. graceful is watching you fall out of love with anything.
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