As I try to think
with the stars in gaze
still nothing goes pink
in my disguised brain
for the sky isn't you

that's why I've gone insane

Fiddling with plastic squares punched into an even bigger plastic square that opens up a small screen of a less detailed version of your face, my only vice these days.

We're running someplace and the trees are green because we've glued all the clones onto them and spray painted them blue and then yellow, to be all alone in this forgotten fire unmad house that we've created out of nothing, we're God.

Bad kids.

I can draw now, according to this textbook on my counter, before my proportions were all wrong and the sharp outline of my figure was taking away depth to my characters, expanding the cartoon feature. Shutup.

Your shape I certainly like, but I like too the shape your shape makes in the empty spaces.

In the empty spaces, I'll find you, not only in an untitled folder on a desktop with dancing shadows, but also beneath a tree and by the river where you long to fall asleep in silence and not in hot trendy bodied drunks.

I'm sorry.

But this is not the nice little poem you asked for me to write you.

This poem isn't even a poem.

You're imagining it.

I'm not even here, I'm behind you about to blindfold you with ten fingers and giggling before I ask you where you've been and where your bed is and the number to your roommate so we can ask him to stay with his girlfriend.