Wishing I was there or you were here

and working off revised and reprinted

operating manuals that instruct on

how to stave off infection

and cure the heart of this

immobilizing power it has on my body.

Cure the heart through exploration

of skin gone uncharted but not unnoticed,

skin discussed and heart dissected;

blades pierce, only the hilt is visible.

pumping blood, our options dwindle

to a two-hander built around escape,

a fantastical adventure we create

over what-isn’t-but-really-is a dinner date.

We persist. I see it taking shape

but for every new twist to the story,

every imagined fuck, colour or place,

I also feel this notion dissipate, evaporate.

All that’s left is live muzak killing faith

but it can’t destroy the feeling

that caused me to pray for light to shine,

to obliterate the walls, the ceilings. I feel destroyed. I am 

denied everything but interpretation. We spent those nights 

trying to rewrite those foreign instructions, translate them 

into something useful but stretching semiotics that far is 

an impossible feat. Eyes resigned, we were left wishing that

I was there with you here, complete, us alone

without this spectre looming over us

like a 1950’s chaperone whose raised eyebrows 

kept hands and heads above the waist.

A formal dance to keep us chaste.

This immediate, circular lust replaced

with all my worry, with all your rage.