An insuperable condition of chasing stimulating homeostasis. A raw throbbing to be different but to be felt. An overproduction of disagreeable feelings. How we expect to receive without gutting a bit of ourselves to offer—it’s almost sacrilegious. Partaking in twosomes, spilling out poems and asking if they have any meaning. We attempt to understand what does not ask to be understood, instead of closing our eyes and living our quirky lives. To be honest, I’m jealous of famous poets. To breach so many bodies, they must hear so many secrets I simply miss on my Line 5 Subway rides and walks to Central Park accompanied by dozens of eye conversations with strangers. If I’m going to think as much as I do, I at least want to yield some answers. I want to know why I like your cheekbones so much when they are just silly bones. I want to know why I like your gasps (they’re orgasmic.) for air when you break the ocean’s surface. I want to know why I look at you and hear my favorite piano song in F-sharp minor.
It sounds overdosed, but after many internal repetitions, I’ve convinced myself that perhaps if humans stare into one another’s eyes for long enough, we’ll know how long our matters have known one another. I think about this constantly, especially on those hazy dawn mornings in the back of taxis (I’ve never been good at driving my life.) when I stretch in the solitude of the backseat. At 4:39 AM, I’m the only person with pain. I selfishly ask myself what has come of what we’ve drawn on the walls with each other’s blood. With me and a murky friend with benefits, we have a leased apartment. And a missing feeling. And 98.6-degree sticky hands to feel our unenthused goose-bumped skin in the solitude of our locked bedroom. And I try to convince myself that we will begin again in a clean and tidy OCD world. That we will find again. That we will feel again in the rare ways we know are achievable.
But I cannot promise that.
Because we are toxic wastelands. Radioactive war zones. Savage self-savers.