2

the moon body takes attachment seriously so gets closer to the bad idea. something seems to stick but doesn't, little big crying in the bathroom again. there are too many circles to count, then all these numbers have to go somewhere. inside the numbers it isn't warm. inside reason is pretend-warm. the tests are inconclusive (everyone says everything is fine and it doesn't mean anything, this being fine, this twin passage cleared sick sweet, bleeding candy no one thought to mention). it's going to be christmas, i guess, i'll borrow a smile to waste on you, unqueer this button-up with how i fill it out. i've never wished to be hollow -- once, maybe, or twice -- but have you ever curved under the moonlight where it cuts through your shitty apartment's back window? have you softened your heart enough to pour it out its cup?
                  i am tasked with precision but let the light pour off me
                          and get that holiness yowling. gawd is my hungry arms wielding a favor, pushing try at my everything is fine. it doesn't matter how many times i float here, nothing about it is machine. when i said your name it was a miles decoder and when i said your name we invented locomotion and when i wrote your name in secret it was because i knew you so quickly, having known you in the upside down version of looking out the timeline's window at the reverse moon sucking the light out of me from a moving car. what i knew would happen tilts me, shakes me for crumbs. i hope i know you wherever it is i'm going.