play me like a piano
squiggly hooked lines
crawl across the yellowed,
crumpled sheets like hesitant
fingers on out-of-tune keys,
forming and deforming words
of a language neither of us
speaks
there is a little hiding spot
between the G and the G sharp,
the singular subspace in
which your hand reaches
for mine, touching, ever
so slightly
I want to switch octaves,
hell, I want to change keys,
but my limbs have become
heavy and you are the dux
to my comes, the kanon
to which my hands kneel
in this punctus contra
punctum
you are the stinging
on my tongue, I swallow
but it lingers, settles in
my throat, now trickling
down my spine, my nerves
are on fire: I am alive,
I am alive
there is peace to be found
in the silence, in the stretches
of empty space between
one dusted chromatic note
and the next, in the negative
of you whose melodic inversion
is the blooming of something
new
Big City Dreams
eye to eye with the singular familiar
Eye of this otherwise nameless city,
bright purple star in the distance
the bridge’s excrements are pink and they shimmer
“Talk to us, we’ll listen” so when I do glance
at that luscious body of water (is that really
all it takes?) so immense I for once
feel almost-skinny, I make sure
to appear inconspicuous
6% battery but I’ve memorized my way —
Regency, Chapter, Regency, Chapter,
none of us notice red light turn green,
lost in blue screens, now it goes 10- 9- 8-
our impending doom is orange and it flickers
and it’s impossible to unsee: there is no
escaping this 3- tire- 2- some 1- faith
the stars are vibrant as ever and made-up
of spiralling street lanterns, of tall buildings
that stand a touch too still, of a stranger
that actually grins at me
or was that just the moon? I decide
it does not matter, as long as I’m convinced
I never am so I spend my final three percent —
Chapter, Chapter, Chapter —
on checking your location for the 23rd time:
we’re 20 hours, 44 minutes apart (little
traffic) and you haven’t moved an inch
for ease of calculation I equate your phone
to your heart (we shall call it The Assumption
of the Modern Age) and decide that you still love me
still, I picture it: the final plummet,
that inevitable plunge, sweet water
that swallows only once, calmly
or, on a slightly different night: I don’t check at
all and the motive for lingering at each traffic
light is simply to drag out this silent
night for just a little bit longer
dear friend, when you picture
me picturing the final act,
picture me smiling