mojo pin, or: stitches.

paralysis is only one term for the shallow ineffective frissons
slowly pulsing outward across neurons and axioms and dendrites and sinking,
falling into the ravines of synapses. there is an anticyclone where my mouth should be
or perhaps the all-seeing eye of a hurricane.

you are standing on the other side of absolutely nothing.
there is no space between us as of course there never was,
since you have always been the other side of my hands
and the edges of my fingers and toes, the paler halves of all my parts
which turn inward and press against my heart when i am asleep so that i dream of you;

blank spaces covered in ink no amount of heat is sufficient to reveal,
on sheets of paper we toss at each other’s feet– we could–
we should collaborate on a novel, i think;

with all these unsung thoughts we’d make a bestseller.

no. no, i don’t have anything to say to you,
because i need my hands to do it
and they are tied behind my back by the tears in your eyes.

you will trap me with this guilt and i will resent you for years to come–
and so our story continues.


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