i’m lost without you, did i mention that?
i scrape my brain cells that hold the memory of you
the way you remove dead flesh from a heel
and i keep the skin cells in tiny glass jars like portable museums.
i carry them everywhere for emergencies
opening them up at dinner parties
while the normals are concentrating on the cooking method of a spatchcock.
i pull you out from my secret purse
hidden under socially self conscious tables
and i roll your flesh in my hands until you’re real again
while nodding in agreement that thyme and lemon jus is always a wise choice for a side.
it’s a stupid ritual really.
one that serves only to widen the divide between me
and that big chance Buddha moment:
‘being fucking present’.
such a noble pursuit
always dull and motionless in your absence
like a train station in those quiet despair hours
between 11pm and tomorrow.
Btw, if you see a girl running that’s me
and i can assure you
it will be from this chance for godhood
what all those new agers bang on about.
that cruel catch phrase forcing a focus
on critical choices made on a whim
(now examined under moth encrusted fluorescent beams)
suddenly now, regrettably dumb.
my heart’s a cowboy
too foolhardy with the lasso
that hip gun too
always going off
each time you’re not in view.
Did i tell you you i’m lost without you?