in a romantic reverie high on something else not life but something else unlike life altogether: eighteen and romanticizing that i would know your moles
though i didn't know them then and didn't like to count
now i've found dots like word thoughts and patterns every night, falling asleep, you lingering because it's difficult for either of us to leave
the warm duvet of smells, farts cocooned over a night
i take too much fibre because i like thin abs for you to come
over and lie on.
a moment i've lost
a million of them
i want to know the exact placement of every mole on your body and name them
after myself but i don't because i wouldn't love you if i knew you.
i wouldn't think you write you re-read you when i read myself if i knew you in a poetically unliscensed world where things are exactly what they appear and your words can't be doubled and read into.
so much of what i spell is lost in the spillage
i wash my sheets twice a month more than i want
i don't change my underwear
unless i smell cum not urine when i'm in the bathroom and your not downstairs but days away and i haven't moved on
from the last human high
i've idled like a dreamer, going through the motions or the mechanisms
until i leave you
in a poem of dust, speckles of dirty thoughts, lurid and counted nonexistence as
moles
