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The Hang Up 

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One mouth to the other

But never touching 

Words were the most intimate thing about them. 

Not anymore though.

A kiss from the breath of an understood tear,

 the height of a skyscraping shoulder to lean on

Both Leaning toward oceans and mango flavored waters

There was enough hurt to to inhale and cause water on the lungs

But at least they could talk right?

Not anymore.

Phone cradled to ear against graveyard silence

“Hello? hello?” Yes I am here inside your mind

Talk to me all night I don’t mind

Minds get hung up on detail,

 get hung up on daily, 

So the brain tickles itself. Cheers itself up enough to laugh at stuff that’s not funny.

I love the feeling of being cut off.

It thrills me to relive the memory of you leaving me

When you threaten me with losing the fresh strawberry lit feild of undistorted friendship we’ve remade out of bossle wood…I faint into glorious splinters and happiness

A happiness unparalleled by the chills of  glee it gives me to get cut off mid sentence and met with dead air.

I care about you. 

So deeply that my skeleton has mutilated my smooth off-white bones stained red 

and been carving manifestos inside me

But if I mention you being inside me you might stop reading so scratch that.

I thought we needed each other lately, to take the edges off, to create more edges and a little bit of light, a little bit of velvet in a world 

Where love can feel like polyester or dollar store denim 

Where love can feel like back alley beatings and drunken bouncers dragging our flailing frames onto the street, trailing our bodily puddles behind us.

Where love is a complication and is not complimented by recieving more of itself.

In such an atmosphere, we could have been simple.

That’s all I was offering. A safe place to meet in the middle, put our shit in a pile and smell it.

Gross, but it would have been okay because at least we could get it out.

You hung up and I am constipated

Thank you for that. Thank you for that again and again and again, you damn gift that keeps on givin’

Like a bad piece of fish, or the flu, or narcotics, or sanded over nights in Morroco without a boat

Since I didn’t get a chance to say it over the phone



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