i can’t imagine how we’re built inside.
i imagine someone else’s heart and mine
exchanging glances through ribs and skin
making apparent decisions while sitting still.
making excuses to contain my point of view
(when was the last time you felt anything?).
being escapist is the best way to get through to you.
following you, honestly, from year to year and town to
in some ironic battle where no matter where we are
or how few times i see you it’s never nice to see you