We are not lovers.
This relationship is c-c-casual, you say
choking hard on the fusty walls
your face is never up, I think about it
as your elbow kicks me repeatedly
The word of the day is sciamachy
but you’re not imaginary — just invisible
armed with a haircut I adore
and would sooner recognize than you
but yet I love you as I love myself
so not at all really.
And now I’m thinking in the
fake accent I’ve been living.
I look up from you and this
and find what I need
on the night table — scribble down a few words
and watch you race yourself.
There should be a password to this life
where decisions are double wrapped in latex.
The air fills up with strawberries
and you hum a simple tune