And it’s like this a shaky arm lets me steep too long My past self, a pile of skin
cells settling in the dent of his shadow in every shot If my oldest memory of you
involves a lake how waterlogged does that make your body by now If my head
is the cage, which of us is the lion The farther back, the eggier the screaming
becomes in my ears Could I be more obvious if I finger paint you
stick figured, inside of my cheeks being chased by some large (but no
less dead) mammal In public I pick my teeth with the boniest beliefs but you don’t
know the faces I make in the dark the pop I play on repeat when no one’s
coming home Don’t make this awkward I’m still a breath but I’ve lost my hand
pressing into the wet cement of your heart longer than I should by a name not mine Then
the cold, the crumpling, my stomach like an aluminum ball and the radio
not rewired in time do you copy when I watch all my friends in my living room through some binoculars
backwards to feel Mars far away If my other arm was never there, is it still a phantom
limb if I can’t remember when it first showed up, can I really be bothered by your ghost