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March 21, 2014 by Wayne.

since it’s world poetry day

(synonym for sick) of this place already
also, of the way your lips twitch slightly before laughing
when you don’t

(of course it’s better)
to revert to strangers – people to pass by, eyes to slide away, to relegate existence of the other to the backdrop
you don’t have to tell anyone but i suppose eventually they’ll realize (or not) so it’s better, of course
to have some agency about it
which is really why i told you in the first place,
the only reason, i mean what else were you supposed to do with it?
but, by the way,
we’ve gone out eight times and you haven’t realized i wear gl
wear my emotions around my hands when i hold open the door?
when i say you look gorgeous today with your hair tied back and also on the yesterday that your hair wasn’t tied back and also everyday

if not cheer, then contentedness at least
(contentedness: the pinnacle of human emotion)
but we’re happy enough
laughing at stray grace notes, at thrills numbed by the ticking hand
the last shots of dopamine scurrying into the pastiche picture we paint of past achievements
fuck, you know how it is, yy.

fuck sensations, fuck needing, fuck writing down words just slowly enough to keep them from running away, fuckkkkk the overbearing stuffiness, the heat of the class in tropical summer, the peeling back of layers into new shops on the off-roads, haircuts from the hairdresser who chats about her cat and bows your head over steam, hands warming at the cup as the windows say, no, don’t, and other stuttering words of protest,

but if you want to get back to her, she was:

she was all numbers, she was
mathematically inclined like
she could count the number of inches by which she towered over me
but she couldn’t put a limit to the inches of her legs
she would derive all the possible reasons she couldn’t see me
she would spend hours in pages of numbers and run from, i dunno, pynchon or something, fuck, i don’t
i don’t know any better, i’m not any better
i just pause longer when i see you walking towards me, take just slightly longer to look away, i mean, shit, i’m not good at counting out the microseconds of eye-locking before your smile fades
or the number of times to blink to erase your protestations against raw fish or,
the max. possible time that i can look away before looking back, at your back, as you walk on and say hello to everyone else, all crooked smiles and propinquity, i

Better, of course, to stay strangers.

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