Couldn't recall to you or tell you when it dried up or when it became what you were after or thought you were after and you were after it much more after it or way later than you have given thought to and it has been arranged or worked out or bled through a sheet of paper stuck to a mirror in that room they can never seem to cool down with all those mirrors and the fans that haven't spun in years or pretended to move to even hover just hanging about over that one the one with the pen shaking in his hand scribbling on a thin pad of sticky notes yellow with fearfulness skepticism he calls it but it's really terror of having to answer for it or recognize that she sits behind him if he would just turn around and see her legs the ones that move even less than the fan blades just hanging about over that one the one with the pen shaking in his hand scribbling and grinding his hesitation wondering if any wonder can be flossed out and conjure a little thread of blood of past humor about the tissue of lies and he uses his fingers and a gentle cleanser for bringing forth or out an application when they used to spell it out when there were still walls or doors closed for meetings of personal touches of accidental contact didn't see you there or the original one who divided my attention between the above and below tendencies rendering me stuck.

She is looking over your shoulder for nonsense to reappear and roll her eyes and her skirt she keeps a copy in her breast that is left for scrambling for ideas baked outside in the searing walk thought I parked it there have nothing to listen anymore and maybe can keep walking and what was that coming down out of the sky the other day an expectoration of the rest of the universe rejecting our changes in anything staying the same for us each other and mostly the times when we avoid each other's resistance to staying out of it this existence and its intrusion into the void an invasion of emptiness leave us unthought leave us now too late way later than you have given thought to and it has been arranged or worked out or bled through a sheet of paper stuck to a mirror in that room they can never seem to cool down with all those mirrors and the fans that haven't spun in years or pretended to move to even hover just hanging about over that one the one with the pen shaking in his hand scribbling on a thin pad of sticky notes yellow with fearfulness skepticism he calls it but it's really terror of having to answer for it or recognize that she sits behind him if he would just turn around and see her legs the ones that move even less than the fan blades just hanging about over that one the one with the pen shaking in his hand scribbling and grinding his hesitation wondering if any wonder can be flossed out and conjure a little thread of blood of past humor about the tissue of lies and he uses his fingers and a gentle cleanser for bringing forth or out an application when they used to spell it out when there were still walls or doors closed for meetings of personal touches of accidental contact didn't see you there or the original one who divided my attention between the above and below tendencies rendering me stuck.

The jersey the blouse swirling inside her sip puckering her lips in lack of appreciation for the thrown together at the last minute next to last minute just another minute just another damned minute plaguing the compliant marching in your head stomping the moisture the stickiness through your eyes mail forced through the slot of your evaporating interest dried up or when it became what you were after or thought you were after and you were after it much more after it or way later than you have given thought to and it has been arranged or worked out or bled through a sheet of paper stuck to a mirror in that room they can never seem to cool down with all those mirrors and the fans that haven't spun in years or pretended to move to even hover just hanging about over that one the one with the pen shaking in his hand.


- Max Stoltenberg