nice

a short thing i wrote a while ago

when you sit down i think about the cello curve of your back fitting so soft in the chair so nicely. you say hello, how are you. i say i'm fine. i think about how i'd like to close your eyes and see the arc of your lashes sitting dusty black below your sockets and push my face to yours. i think about how i'd like to force my canines into the flesh of your cheek with my tongue licking the conch shell flesh of your mouth, our faces diagonal like during a kiss.

you say that every time you look in the mirror you're seeing another polaroid of a stranger and i imagine for a minute that i can see chemical ghosts in your irises. but then i think for a second about how contrived you are. keeping not talking i'm looking at you in the sunlight, you in the chair, and i'm seeing that everyone dies in slow motion. keeping looking at you i'm really quite tired of everything. fed up to my throat until my stomach strains.whine, whine, chatter, chatter, and all of a sudden your face clouds and a storm brews. electricity just crackles over your head. you would almost think something had happened but all that's happening is you're talking and you're not listening.

i think about how i'd like to dry out your tendons, the webs of your skin, and hang them like spiderwebs on my furniture. you keep talking and talking and all the time i can hear your music blaring around your neck because you never ever turn off your headphones. i hate it. you can't listen to the world without having to control one part and make it feel a certain way. you can't listen to the world in neutral.

just as i'm thinking about how much i loathe you, you move your feet and our feet are zigzagging together and i'm thinking that i really really don't want them to. my spine is pushing out of my back and my intestines are cobra twisted around my heart and my lungs are drowning and you're still saying something.i wish i had any idea what you're saying but i'm just thinking about how nice your hands look. their dusting of monkey hair, their jointed knuckles and stained eagle nails. hands with character. and i'm thinking thinking thinking that i'd like to cut them off and sear the flesh off them until they're bare bare bison skull bare and put rings on their fourth fingers and make them hold so you're married to yourself because i know if you could do that you would. we're sitting in silence, the pulsing moment supposing to be time has died.

all we have left to do is repeat because to be honest i haven't been listening to a thing you've been saying. i'm thinking about how it'd be nice to wipe the goobers from the insides of my eyes on your cookie when you're not looking. god, i'm thinking that i fucking think too much.