I sat in the grass in the sun and tried to write a poem.
I gave up.
I ran the paper under water until the words crumbled and dissolved.
The story always gets mangled in the telling.
It’s not a story I really wanted to tell.
It’s evening now, and my eyes are a normal size.
I sat in the grass in the sun and tried to write a poem.
(He stood in the lab, looking for a pattern in the tangle of human nerves)
(I wanted to be like him)
I gave up.
(He found it)
(I wanted to feel what he felt)
I ran the paper under water until the words crumbled and dissolved.
(And then he ran away, for the last time, so he says)
(I wanted to be fearless for an infinite moment)
The story always gets mangled in the telling.
(Because the words are always written to serve a purpose)
(The words are an imperfect memory)
It’s not a story I really wanted to tell.
(The purpose of mine is still unclear)
(Then why are you still trying to explain?)
It’s evening now, and my eyes are a normal size.
(Then he realized he forgot his keys)
(Now I feel silly too)
