I'll be busy again too, but this evening,
caramel cremes and hot chocolate aside,
will be lackluster. A motive is nothing
to be proud of. The past tense
of shit is shit. I forgot I loved you
many times. In the jungle gym
at two a.m., in the cellar, many
times by the river -- ok, just once,
Hyper-cafffeination leads to excessive
bitterness. If only you weren't on
the other side of the room and maybe yesterday
was much more than a day away, then
what was once a motive for desire could be
origami, your letter folded into a swan,
but it's not your neck I'm after. In human
lifetimes, the distance between galaxies is a lucky
break, compared to the energy required to make
my back sweat. The universe needs to relax.
When we sat with our backs to the wall during
some cosmic event, it was the breeze in your hair
I noticed and how rare a breeze at night is now
that I love the television. What was once an event is now rebroadcast at certain intervals and in this way
it resembles Halley's Comet. In human lifetimes, there
are an infinite number of directions and the universe
expands anyway. I don't want property, I want longevity.
The Crocodile Hunter explains his trade to viewers as if
we're his pupils and if I could be any part of my body
it would be your eyes. I would see everything
upside-down, like when your head leans back
and looks through the eyes in your mirror to see him
on top of her, below her, and understands it's time to move on.
