You sit blankly, stupor-smiling blankly, on the other side of this phone connection. I have leached your clean ignorance. I have bleached a hole through your previously perfect whole. Don't worry, the stone which weighs your dream closed tethers my chest gape-open.
You can't touch yourself to surfaces anymore. You know, you can't invite polished brass or mirrors within still; They will re-emerge corroded green or grease-smeared cloudy. Is that how you've pictured thing-interaction for your entire existence starting last time we touched?
I used to picture you as a sad-faced clown without a chin or a human hug who slept in filth and woke late in wrong-starched dickies buttoned off-kilter. Now I picture you sewing dark seeds, weighing the near fallen, strapping tight the wings of those who would soar regardless of having met you once, on accident.
I picture your organs, not rotting, but forgetting to function to sustain your other organs. I picture only one organ searching and occasionally landing in pudge-drenched, euphoric pork fat; Even that you taint half-knowingly. This organ centers your skin-loose existence.
I'm glad you exist, too. Otherwise, who would die early without leaving a trail of tears?
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