You and your complicated mouth
drinking whiskey and shooting up the room.
We've become something and nothing at the same time
absorbed in thought between moments of mutual distractions.
an accidental backtrack
on the sidewalk concrete growing beneath our feet
a lie in the pulpit.
an uncomfortable chair seeking
shapes me awkwardly
I have drowned in your shallow.
A well timed spit
after a blow-job gone
you want all the space in the room
show you my retreating back
my slow migration to somewhere else
but I think I love you with this ticker-tape heart
all float and no real direction.
So many things fall from the sky
never to be found again: swallowed whole.
Tragedy never comes in the form we predict
sometimes they take the form of dropped calls
falling from some other time
like nightmares wanting operator assistance
for their return.