You’re the blur of boundary between pot and plant.
You are a madness that moves, too motherish.
Taken down into the basement where the music is,
where the colorful crystals are.
You careful-like lift out containers of take-out,
I scratch myself on purpose by accident.
The TV crackles and smokes and burns the powder.
Someone, but I don’t think it’s me, takes off a jacket.
Their arms are white and confused and infantile.
We stop to sing a song over a sink that is too small,
a bed missing its feet and boots and confidence.
Your hands figure out the world moment by moment.
I like to watch, but I like to be part of whatever too.
You will find me and ask where have I been.
Today, with minimal effort, I experience eyes and dialogue.
Night falls when the light leaves and we careen reckless.
It’s not impossible someone like me could crave speed.
I brag by admitting I care about what you don’t,
the surest way I have of proving something or other.
Never hold back, except when holding back earns you love.
Let’s not go, let’s stay in and play dress-up
until I look like you, until you understand everything.