I'm writing something you can read. Got the cardboard cut-out of your figure against the counter and I'm trying to find the perfect angle that will steal your eyes away and fix them on my own. I find it in your kitchen chair, waiting for you to finish chopping onions. I need you to kiss me a dozen times like before and I'll feel safe for that moment, until you become cardboard and disappear sideways out of grasp.
I learn, I said, read books and pull characters from pages. There's an ending to the story on your glossy surface and I play like I'm illiterate to its fore-shadow. You'll come to life and they'll change that ending in the movie version of you: make it happier.
I'm looking down two rivers of your city. I shove you. We kiss in your basement. You talk to me about market shops and I stare at you, pretending to listen. You fold your arms and I survive the cold of your open window in your frigid Manitoba.
When the lights are out, you dream about Starbucks and sweatpants. I'm awake in the complete dark, aware of the strong senses leading me by leash to an intersection of my life. When you're as prideful as I am, you trust the dog, you cross the street.
SLAM.
"I'm a med student. Are you hurt?"
Yes.
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1 comment:
The level you write on is so far beyond most everything I've read in my life, Ian. You have a remarkable talent, and whether you use it as a means of financial benefit, or a beautiful personal blog, it will definitely fulfill its purpose.
Thank you for being one of my intelligent AND good-looking friends.
-Your Yogurt-Stick Lover
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