No One Loves Me ...

Situations that always involve bottles of wine (fine or otherwise)

I wish we were old friends. Sitting in midnight. I would tell you how wonderfully ridiculous you are. As is. Off the rack with the imperfect seams and irregular weave. The comfiest of clothes. Define, deconstruct, destroy (all evidence). The laughs that hide in folds of fleece and pillow creases. Corduroy pressings all down your cheek. Secrets flipped between our fingers, masters of prestidigitation for the words we’ll wish we’d left cupped against our wrists. Tonight (for one night only) a stunning display of illusions left behind the curtain. Show me the tricks in your magic jacket. The layers of invisibility: masks, cloaks, springs, switches, hinges and alternate dimensions. The manifestations of ill-defined self.

Never mind if I see through; glamours never work on your own kind. You should know. The rough edges will never be smooth on the bottom. Looking up from where I sit. Cross-legged and waiting. Folded hands, laced fingers, pressed against my mouth. I am smiling at me at you. The intimacy of never locking eyes/lips/arms. We are our own. Full-possession, full-stop: I am everything you think. You will not be afraid of my thoughts and neither will I. We will speak our opinions when no one wants to hear them. We will be gloriously wrong and hilariously right. After the humour fades into darkness over daylight, and the tangents spiral in Mobius strips. Pick a thread. Any thread. To unravel the stories, re-weave that shirt.

by My Mental Milkcrate

Wanted: Replacement Parts

I am building a heart of laughter. It runs a little like clockwork without the grinding, ticking seconds. Fits and starts to keep no beat (except the drumbeat thrumping feet) and pealing out odd hours. I can show you where the chuckles clump. Where giggles swim like goldfish between the gears. Where phrases ring right and clang wrong and all the pings like cooling metal in between. And when it’s done, and shined just right, I’ll hammer in a few dents where memory fingers sqeezed. And chisel in these cracks like creases in the spines of books I’ve read too much.

by My Mental Milkcrate

I wasn’t lost when you stopped

If I could go back to the other night. Before I was drinking wine. Before the music and those memories kept twisting and twining around each other until there was nothing to do but make a necklace with cheap plastic beads to partitian the events and throw it in a drawer with all the other trinkets I never wear. The way I bring up unimportant memories as if you were cherished and relevant.

I don’t regret, you know. Not in the specific way that people do in our generic situation. Or lack of situation. It isn’t that sense of being far away and confused. Like trying to remember dreams or coming back from sleep. These every-morning things that I’m not sure you do. Like closing doors to respect your lover’s sleep and the uncommon courtesy of making good coffee even though you don’t drink it.

Somewhere among these anti-regrets is a day we never spent together. A day we might have imagined in our deepest imaginations. Sub-sub-sub-conscious creation. I never said. And you never thought. And asking is for suckers and the brittle. So we stare at each other with no memories within the strangeness of being unacquainted.

by My Mental Milkcrate

This is what I whisper against your neck in the middle of the night

I don't like to talk about loving you. I can't break it into crumbs and lick it from my fingers. And even if I could, it wouldn't taste as good as watching your hands slice celery for stir fry.

by My Mental Milkcrate