(and I feel like this is a sign of lacking spiritual control,)
(but really this is a sign that I am holding).
The internet tells me
I have to heal myself from within,
(whatever that means)
so I sit twice a day,
so I can love myself,
(while I love you,)
(and to telepathically speak to you).
I think you take some blood before you fall apart, from a connection not doing the work.
You and I mirror, in endless flatlined reflections. Pull east-west, the gaze centuries deep, until the shadows get too intense.
You make a joint to make an X. The X you press into your skin with your longest nail through a bug bite so it doesn’t itch. I can’t search the lore for this itch. All I discover is general: left is bad, right is good. My ribs feel like they are splayed.
One memory loop, of your arms appear from behind me, wrapping around my waist and chest as I stand at the counter to write something (now I don’t remember what). The impulse, and your silver bracelet, and how you held, even though you wanted to run. Always when my back was turned, you felt comfortable again (because, well, the eyes).
The water in the image I had of you crying on your birthday, in bed, because you couldn’t kiss me. Me doing the same. And the noise I felt, between my thighs. I picture sweeping away the grey, but it still rises in me. This is pain, this is porn.
Now we are gathered here today, at Super Foodtown, and you see me at the other end of the cleaning supplies aisle, and we walk slow, in one long line, to make sure it is really us we see. Then after the march, reunion as we cry among the mops, because we’ve missed praying together.
I picture a green ribbon, forever flowing out of my chest, surrounding Lewis Ave.