how long had it been since then, when youd seen me stray as a dog and said now this, now this i could love?
i wrote that a long time ago, long enough now i dont remember.
was it about you or about me?
i guess we are in parallel orbits how i could be solved like a rubiks cube yet that is the thing,
im a toy too childish for you.
we dont bother with the easiest things. i open the door and theres you with your head on fire again.
you in a million different locations you around the world with your big ole eyes and your smirk.
infinitely more fragile than i ever gave you credit for but then,
you know me,
i am afraid of fragile things.
more often than not. i break them.

an endemic hesitation. recognizable. all those fancy words.
like the way that youd wake up in the morning and go tearing
through the house a whirlwind a tornado and i still,
i still after all these years write about you,
all poetry is about you, even the poetry that isnt.
even the poetry that isnt poetry, how "poetry"
the word sounds sick inside the poem, dont name it and
dont call it what it is
you must live up to fucking poetry but thats like living up
to womanhood.

it would have been nice to see
how we could have turned out.
i don't think about it very much.
mostly i think about how we were.
and even that
wasnt very good.