you don't know what you're saying, baby.  the
back of your skull is cracked open, a
dry river hightailing deep
enough to suck the sahara down.  all those
calendars are lying to you, clocks
only provide an alternative way to document
change.  you are, in fact, a
dirty string of translations and
reactions, ill-bred and well-bred, taught by
history and cultivated by
uncertainties.  i am worried sick.  you turn over.

when i lie, my stomach is hollow, my
ribcage falls to my knees.  when i lie, i
believe myself and i am not —

you hold me so tight, i think
to myself, breathing is optional.  your eyes are
the colour of sunflowers.  scars
sliver your porcelain
face like effervescent afternoons forever
embedded in my mind's eye.  immovable.  permanent.  a
strange, sad story.

you don't know what you're saying.