..when you touch your head and try to show that it hurts and you touch your belly with palms like feathers cause you're nursing a bud like when you touch your arms and you're weary, I want to touch your face.
..going over a score of different ways of asking about your heart and never making it beyond the colour of your shirt.
"If you were to make a french omelet out of your ticker, would I be the pan or the beater or the salt or all that the batter is composed of? Or do I just get to eat it?"
"Is it asleep? Is it humming, is it sad about the weather? Does it piss a lot at night?"
"Did I just hear it say.."
Oh did I? "..but that shade sucks, man."
..the way I say 'hello, hello i know you! ,' one drink down.
..the way I skirt around the edges and jump in when I'm hoping you'd fall. If this
were a movie, I'd be the ignored relic in the museum while the professors fell in love and the walls remained white and grey. I'd be the empty photo frame while sadness built up in their eyes like rain. If I were on TV, I'd be the only weather forecast you miss out on.If this weren't real, I'd be my own socks and eat my feet.I'd be something severely poetic and punch your heart right out of your ribcage, but plug up all ellipses.I'd punch your heart right out- but then tiptoe my way to it and put it in a vintage suitcase after you've collapsed.
Like I'd only leave if I could have that one vintage suitcase with suspicious contents that go tick.tick.tick. and they would have to stop me right there.
But I can't, and tomorrow when I'm jet lagged, I'll just be jet lagged. Not lovelorn, not looking for a bottle opener, no bare feet on cold stone burning from a touch.
Like crabs with their shells touching until one topples over and leaves.