the constant is me

I’m just disappointed that it’s not electric

That we are not prongs on a wet field of instance

Conductors of connectivity

Gunpowder mouths exploding into ruin

and decay

I thought not wanting to yawn

Meant more than stillness

I thought not wanting to prove myself

Meant more than being nodded at

That we are flashes of static in a dry dry room

Devouring energy with friction and socks

These floors are hard wood

My shoes are cheap rubber

And you

Your mouth

Is a calm silence

Damp on an untouched keyboard

I thought a meeting of minds

Was reason enough to pry apart the barbed wire rims I’ve kept against my white matter

I thought a cleanly halved ratio of sick and sappy aesthetic to sad and girl aesthetic

Was reason enough to sustain the vibrating murmur of our chemistry

I’m just disappointed it’s not cosmic intention,

That I was waiting for cosmic intention

But am sitting in gas mask quarantine

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