What we do in the dark has no hands. No crossover effect, no good-bye kiss after the alarm. What we carry in, we carry out, end of story. This doesn’t even want to be love. Except in minutes when your face has the shape of my palm and I think lungful. Let want out with the cat. Returns and returns, something dutiful. Persistent. Hold your breath, let it build, let go. This is practice. I'm losing weight, a bad sign, I'm happy. Serious, you say. Contained, I think. The cat comes back with a dead bird to the doorstep, an offering. Bloodless this should be easy. A two-step to cowboys. You're beautiful but that's not the point. x I know my way back perfectly well. Like the back of my hand, as it were. But look, the labyrinth walls are high hedge and green. This also could be joy. xx I literally don't know your middle name. Does that matter? What systems we arrange for intimacy, small disclosures like miniature bridges, your mouth. Not what I'd anticipated. Softer. To begin with, I should tell the truth more. I could miss you, and that's a liability. xxx I am not often off-kilter. But you're so silent, even naked, and almost absent. I hush too, why are we here? Go. Want to throw things, you, the clock, break windows until something bleeds and you finally scream. I tell you too much; we are not those people. Or nothing–maybe I say utilitarian fuck. How would that be. I want you to want to fall in love with me and that's unhealthy. Wrong. Leave your shoes by the door and pretend it's about the movie. It's love in the movies it's Casablanca and Toy Story and water no ice come here. Pockets need to be untucked, drawers thrown open, nobody’s safe. There, I've said it: someone I was could have loved you.
— miniature bridges, your mouth by marty mcconnell
