As you alone type your strangeness
Your angsty alienation dissipates
Leaving you breathless and more isolated.
Then, you read his words so unlike yours but so like the parts you keep silent and hidden in Pottery Barn beige boxes with many compartments and high price tags.
The frozen melts, all changes.
Sparkling water fruit flavors take on a new relevance and potency.
Seeking new Bossa Nova classics preoccupies.
Looping in and out of his kenta cloth bow ties lessens your misery.
You rope yourself around the space above his onyx pinky ring.
He doesn’t notice the finger’s extra weight.
Prostration does little to garner his attentions or time.
It’s okay, ’cause sincere approbation crumbles your gut.
That’s okay, ’cause you haven’t listened to her, since you gave up on John Hughes and Disney films.
Beach kids in tents discovered in and exported from desert storms will never know sandy fried chicken.
Lover kids intent on their media social will never find a mixed tape of adoration songs in their lockers.
All okay, ’cause I never knew what it was to have to drive a little farther to hear my favorite song again.
And, other than my style over content fixations, nearsightedness, and morbid obesity, I am okay too.