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Every time we interact
I am in the same place.

The air is sparse,
I am curled into a ball on a plastic chair,
the stars are distant
but there is no real space
between us.

When I speak to you through the phone
our words float secondhand—
needles into the dark,

they are made of particles
shooting spasms through the air.

I am shedding this old jacket
to be dressed in absence,

pupils darting all directions
to catch some glimpse of omen
as secret centers in my brain
burn to divine
the nature of our history.

There is no feeling
worse than physical absence,

spectral fingertips projected
across strings of night sounds.

So I have built a shrine for your absence.

This plastic throne
is in conflict with your ghost.
Shards of glass
are falling into my hands.

Feel the holes in your skull,
the scar on my shoulder,
the corpse on your back:

like void laughing.

Weight to make your knees buckle.

What is the opposite of longing?
Surely there is some place
where we can just be idle.

I have made hundreds of sculptures
of you
and every one is misshapen.

It’s so peculiar: the way
I waltz, stumble into
this place of shadow

where I can drink the past
without considering
that it may be poisoned.

The pain in my stomach
has always been too abstract
to identify;

I have made hundreds of sculptures
written thousands of words
in an attempt to find the core

and it keeps changing shape

so when we interact
I counsel the stars:

we lock eyes
across miles innumerable;

the universe is no match
for my own confusion.
I am stepping on the toes
of the constellations,
holding impossible hands.

I am holding hands with no one.
I am holding hands
with every object
that passes by.