There’s not a lot to summon anymore
Blown-up pictures of your performative self,
which you willingly handed over,
soaked with water
shredded and fragmented before
Pulpy, unrecognizable
You laud reliability
Boy-and-girl propriety
It’s why you always lie to me
You hide from me
Fear keeps you still
Keeps you thinking that you won’t when you will
Keeps you looking for a thrill
What are you doing? Drifters need to drift
and builders must build.
To be one or both,
to choose our path forward,
to give up our notions
of infinite options
to make our decisions
to draw our incisions
to accept and to care.
As my vision narrows
I could drive you there.

Okay,
what if
I mean
I’m sorry.
This comes down to something you don’t want to hear.
We’re disastrously incompatible.
I’m a complicated thing that fears feelings.
You’re a feeling thing that fears complications.
You set too much store by outdated theories,
your own theories composed of memories and guilt;
My own theories,
like little fantasies,
loathingly cultivated.
“I’ve got no claim on you now,” no, nor did I ever.
You’re an untouchable,
a live wire.
I’m a curious child with a hunch
that you will hurt me.
You’re a mockingbird that moves from nest to nest.
I’m a falcon that lives its life alone.