Underwater Ghost Trees Make Bad Telegraph Poles


In the corner of my mind on a Tuesday afternoon I thought I saw the letters which spelled the name of an ex lover in the address book of my phone so thoroughly deleted or so I thought. Later that evening I walked past a building and I imagined him being in there and in all likelihood he was. I went next door and half finished an afrogato.

Had he not made my world smaller, fatter, more full of fear? Gross expenditure with a return of two peas and a train ride to the bright lights of Atlantic City for one and a half adults, please. The dingle dangle carrot of kindness and swings in the sunshine, everlasting elasticated support, a seat by the window, American happy ever afters for two child idiots, one masquerading as a man.

A boy. A death. A fall from a roof in high winds. This came out of no where.

His strong arm had been out to hold me back the whole time the other one had been outstretched tempting flattering adoring drawing me to him across the year 2013 when he couldn’t play in the picture he wanted. This came out of no where.

I looked at my list thirty nine hours later today and he is not there. Out of nowhere he disappears again. The branches of a fake forest lay forgotten last night in the street by an open door by no one by some wings biding their time holding their breath for as long as custard holds its shape. Drive nails into soft wood nothing splits into two. Lie in bed nothing splits into two.

Constellational explosional rip tide confessional molecular transmission the size of three universes. That’s what it said on the label.

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