I'm not proud

I mostly fear reading the next chapter.

Of myself.

If I were a book, and not a boy,
I would make sure I was hid
at the unreachable corner,
under the dusty, over-thumbed tabloids,
in a cumbersome looking shelf.

Not worth the effort of rummaging
and squinting to rediscover where I left off.

••

Let's leave it at the pronouncement.
too formal.
Let's leave it at the sound of
the song we both know.
We love the words we constantly
forget.
We smile, even though we
never really understood their significance.
Maybe I reach out my ashy wrist to
call attention to our surprising, inevitable
silence.
"ooh, would you listen to that!"

I'm never surprised by you.
I hold my breath re-reading
the heaviest paragraphs for mistakes.
trans-emotional typos
that inspire you for a day or two.

A wheezing, moth-et bellows
roars at a lace jib, waiting for a punchline.

waiting for the image to stick.