(non threatening—
we’re just making art about each other,
or at least we used to)
Do I want you to try.
Would you want someone to try? To break past your boundaries, to fight for you? Or hold them in calm silence?
We don’t know what’s needed until it is absent, past, long ceased existing.
Do you empathize in that way? Thinking how it would make you feel to go through x, y or z, or fill in the blank.
I wonder. How your mind works.
Presumptuous I know, but I wonder if and how I occupy it, what little zing sends me waltzing about your inner world uninvited.
Do my steps leave their impressions on you, or do you hurriedly mop them up
as if they were dirt, or mud
Something that muddles your peace
or a piece of you
Does space heal? Or does it fester?
I think it would depend on the story being told, are you an honest narrator?
Or do you victimize,
perhaps sit proud and wax self righteous?
This thing between us, it isn’t quite normal.
That’s the fiction I’ve spun,
for you’re just a man.
Another man I made up, you once were something, and then turned all around to nothing
All the best aspects of you never were and never could be
And I knew this long before when I held you, in your stiffness, that cross bodied expression of carried weight, a rejection in itself
How much my affection washed against you, I wonder if it would have worn away at you in time
You asked if it was about you, well this one is.
You played the part well, but you were no imaginary man of mine—