+

Side by Side.

I never talk about these things though I have so many who’ll listen. You are an example. You are just one. There are others. Plenty others. There is more. Remember that, if only because I never talk. Not about these things. But I repeat, which is to say, I do think in advance. What’s to not doubt?

Where babies go when you give them away.

Where, where?

Do they go while you think?

Are they taken when you’re acting in that way where it’s you this can only be about?

Where do they go? Mom?

Babies. When you gave that one away.

“Santa takes them beclause he doesn’t give all the time.”

“It’s a myth.” She stares down to tell her fragile little girl. “That he’s a giver is a myth.”

“You understand this now don’t you?”

Sure I do.

But I didn’t. But I did not care any longer to listen. I am older. Old enough now not to have to be hearing her. Always this, always thating. Never nothing but this that, always. And all the quiet in her mouth. I can’t blame myself for the wondering I do. As an example, why she couldn’t choke when she swallowed, why silence never sat in her place.

Where should they go when no one’s come to take them?

And they are waiting. Babyish.

Counting on every possible no one.

Those that won’t prevent them from not staying.

Tell me this. Do you ever desire your plainness? Its consistency. How adding black to the black won’t mean it’s later but could make him stay. All inked out. And desirable. Preserving the as is, the unalterable plainness in us all. I do desire these ideas of mine. I desire the last I create, the only one carrying our permanence, the finality we deserve and don’t deny.

Until then curiosity will be my lone maintenance, if only because it may lead me closer to our absolute acknowledgment. Encircling these very own thought bubbles, you are kept, sustaining an internalized purpose. All this while I am here, hardening into curiosity, bare of achievement. Ears rings reacting to the body plunging ahead.

And just for you. I am deeply delirious all over.

Holding my weight in a hand, you are. You are, that one I won’t get through forgetting. That one for now. You are the one I should have told I’ve been having thoughts with.

But I don’t talk about these things. Though I could, if only to make you feel special and excluded. Can you feel that way because of me? I’ll have to know in advance, if only because to talk with you I’ll need to hear you’ll listen. Tell me this.

Do thinkers think so to move off the position of themselves, beyond the commitment they are failing at accepting, and aren’t courageous enough to leave the unrest for? Are we hysterical?—not to even see that we mime our own lack.

Thought, that empty feeling, how it can’t fit in a hand. I keep pressing, needing to be closer, and why? Should I touch you if what you are isn’t tangible? Yes, don’t quit teasing me, if only because there is something, too, for you here. But I never talk about those things.

“Mommy doesn’t believe you.” She points to the fragile girl, tapping her little nose.

“Keep listening to everyone else’s story of Santa, and my daughter is going to stay very, very sad.”

I’m not sad.

“Oh how cute you can be.” She bends, brushing the child’s cheek, thinking there is a tear. And then laughs, as if in discovery.

“Then why don’t you tell me what you are.”

Nothing like you, Mom.

Side by Side.

I never talk about these things though I have so many who’ll listen. You are an example. You are just one. There are others. Plenty others. There is more. Remember that, if only because I never talk. Not about these things. But I repeat, which is to say, I do think in advance. What’s to not doubt?

Where babies go when you give them away.

Where, where?

Do they go while you think?

Are they taken when you’re acting in that way where it’s you this can only be about?

Where do they go? Mom?

Babies. When you gave that one away.

“Santa takes them beclause he doesn’t give all the time.”

“It’s a myth.” She stares down to tell her fragile little girl. “That he’s a giver is a myth.”

“You understand this now don’t you?”

Sure I do.

But I didn’t. But I did not care any longer to listen. I am older. Old enough now not to have to be hearing her. Always this, always thating. Never nothing but this that, always. And all the quiet in her mouth. I can’t blame myself for the wondering I do. As an example, why she couldn’t choke when she swallowed, why silence never sat in her place.

Where should they go when no one’s come to take them?

And they are waiting. Babyish.

Counting on every possible no one.

Those that won’t prevent them from not staying.

Tell me this. Do you ever desire your plainness? Its consistency. How adding black to the black won’t mean it’s later but could make him stay. All inked out. And desirable. Preserving the as is, the unalterable plainness in us all. I do desire these ideas of mine. I desire the last I create, the only one carrying our permanence, the finality we deserve and don’t deny.

Until then curiosity will be my lone maintenance, if only because it may lead me closer to our absolute acknowledgment. Encircling these very own thought bubbles, you are kept, sustaining an internalized purpose. All this while I am here, hardening into curiosity, bare of achievement. Ears rings reacting to the body plunging ahead.

And just for you. I am deeply delirious all over.

Holding my weight in a hand, you are. You are, that one I won’t get through forgetting. That one for now. You are the one I should have told I’ve been having thoughts with.

But I don’t talk about these things. Though I could, if only to make you feel special and excluded. Can you feel that way because of me? I’ll have to know in advance, if only because to talk with you I’ll need to hear you’ll listen. Tell me this.

Do thinkers think so to move off the position of themselves, beyond the commitment they are failing at accepting, and aren’t courageous enough to leave the unrest for? Are we hysterical?—not to even see that we mime our own lack.

Thought, that empty feeling, how it can’t fit in a hand. I keep pressing, needing to be closer, and why? Should I touch you if what you are isn’t tangible? Yes, don’t quit teasing me, if only because there is something, too, for you here. But I never talk about those things.

“Mommy doesn’t believe you.” She points to the fragile girl, tapping her little nose.

“Keep listening to everyone else’s story of Santa, and my daughter is going to stay very, very sad.”

I’m not sad.

“Oh how cute you can be.” She bends, brushing the child’s cheek, thinking there is a tear. And then laughs, as if in discovery.

“Then why don’t you tell me what you are.”

Nothing like you, Mom.

notes