To conjure you from memory is to surpass the comfort of a strip of photos, disintegrating in my pocket. Carrying you with me is never the same as returning to you.
This place is tap water to the proof of my veins.
By and by, the dregs of it twitch within, create nervy wonderings in tendrils. It warms the half-poisoned guts of me.
Withering in your company at times inappropriate, disturbing the routine packed into a day measured out in foot falls and spoonfuls. You, in plain form, use the shoulder and the basin of me to pour your un-solvables into, retreat to your various positions and mutter accordingly. You, incognito format, scale me up, adjust audience protocols to suit when you next unload and invert.
We were there from the beginning, shook hands as we traipsed from mould to mould - the vulgar truth in our similarities as humans. Clemency is what keeps our teeth in, for the next round.
We all seem to burn in perfect proximity to each other without touching.
Our lines of connection fragment outward. No matter how hard the glass hits the bar.
“This is not the way a mother should behave”, you grin.