Shoulder blades: A collection of shallowings.

Your greetings are psychological conditioning
(you're worth it, i don't mind, good morning)
The lies are relative, what matters is that I believe them.

tense.

She will come and tell you what she thinks, but you will stand your ground. You will tell her who you are and who you will be and she will fight you on it. She will say no, no you are not who you think you are. You are much much more, she will say.

She holds you, and you don't know how she does (she's such a tiny little thing), but she does and you can't move. She pulls herself to you -- you're still frozen -- she holds you tightly, so much so it's almost painful, because you can almost feel all the pieces of herself she's trying to get back.

You will be too flustered. How dare she tell you who you are. But she had seen you sleeping and seen you seething and had stayed through it, singing you into a tomorrow that thought better things. Nevertheless, you remain insistent. You can't, you won't, she should mind her own business! It really doesn't matter anyhow.

She slumps her shoulders and you can almost feel the disappointment she carries. You can almost see it in the curve of her back and in the way her fingers are slipping carefully around yours.

Her voice began to sound the way you feel after a long day. She composed herself the best she could, and before leaving, she gave you the most ceremonious last glance you've ever received, one so good you could only dream of giving it. It was like a flash of color, first yellows and reds, and then faded pastels, a dirty white. A dusty canvas.

You were a bit too harsh maybe. Too strong. But she shouldn't have said anything! Never mind that she had your best interests at heart, she was wrong. Did you really shout at her, her of all people. Were you really so cruel.

How could she turn you into a monster. 

Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem by Bob Hicok

My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers

of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think

praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what’s happening,

it’s what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.
I like the idea of different

theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook

of a cousin universe I’ve never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,

your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb

but couldn’t hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother’s belly
she had to scream out.

Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,

in all of the lives we are, it’s with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.

Thank you, Tracey, for introducing me to this and consequently ruining my life. I am grateful (and in mourning). 

I don't mean anything.

I lie because I have nothing to say.

I lie because boredom stings like singing and sunlight and stardom. 

I lie because I don't like what I see in the mirror

I. D. K.

I don't know. 

Friendly, adj.:

She's covered in sunlight bruises. A part of him thinks she might burst into a thousand different colors. She melts into beige and yellow on his shoulder when she rests her head. He talks to everyone else, paying them his attention in fragments. He shovels his foot into some pebbles on the ground and brushes his arm by her arm with all intention. She doesn't notice.

They're friends. She puts her hand on his hand. Everyone is here -- everyone can see. Maybe it's just one of those things; like her hand just fell there and maybe she didn't want to move it. Her fingers curl around the edges of his palm and there are no gasps. He slides his hand away and she almost sees it coming. Crest-fallen, she keeps smiling a muted orange skimming the corners of her lips.

After a little bit, she excuses herself to go to the restroom. He stands up a few beats after she does and walks in the same direction. She knows, she can feel him trailing behind her so she slows. He jogs forward. He asks if they can maybe talk sometime and she shrugs. He bumps his arm into her shoulder and a little shock jolts him. She doesn't notice.

The sky is a pale gray; it's going to rain. The wind gets cooler as the afternoon settles into dusk -- she's still sitting somewhere covered in sunlight bruises. She could be fifty or five hundred feet away. The thought of her is a flicker in his subconscious, the irritating flash of a camera in the dark. He thinks of other things, all the while keeping the thought of her in post-its and pretending not to notice. 

***

On a different night, she's dusted in moonlight and he can't stop thinking about it. Streetlight suits her. She fumbles with her fingers before lacing her arm in his, clutching it. He walks an inch of a step closer and holds his arm at a good ninety degrees to keep her comfortable. She knows she's welcome and she takes it. She pushes him playfully and he pushes her gently, knowing he could knock her to the ground if he wanted. But he didn't want to.

They talk, they joke, she's letting her guard down (not that she had one). From this angle he sees the dimming light in her eyes and it's a little troubling. More than that, her hands are heavy. More than that, she's falling. She trips over her own feet and he catches her before it happens. He holds her up. She apologizes. 'Sorry for being a bit weak today', she slurs. He nods an 'it's okay' before going back to walking under exit signs and street lights, liking the way her hands are holding him with necessity.

***

It's seven in the morning. She's sitting alone wrapped in a sweater and obvious want for something to lie on. He sits next to her and is happy and says hi and brushes her hair back. She laughs and shakes him off and nudges his shoulder with her head. She nuzzles into him, moaning for sleep. Her smell lulls him into familiarity; her skin doesn't make him tremble. But her lips might.

He takes her hand and plays with it, two hands to play with one of hers. She's comfortable on the bones of his shoulders, eyes closed and dreaming of better beds. He traces "Please?" on her palm and sighs. This time she notices. She smiles. Ten minutes go by without event. Friends start arriving and conversation bursts to life. She's leaning against a brick wall instead of the sleeve of his shirt. When the bell rings, she stands and looks up at him and whispers, 

                            "Maybe." 





Should I continue this? :/ Actually answer me. :)) 

25: Resolve.

i don't feel the pain i once did 

there lives an old box where i shot it sure dead 

with you gone, there's nothing to lift

there's nothing to carry, to patch up, to thread