I will ask you not to loose me, this unknowing boy, fag smoked halfway, unseen on this pallid scene we have come to know as home. Mine sinks downward where you are, and you must not loose me, this unsung vocabulary, not wholly forgotten by us, by everyone. You will say new things and I will struggle to catch up, unwilling to reach you.
Searching for a lozenge among shops that sell bodies, where we must have something to sell or will be sold, we enter the dark spirit cubicles which used to be a lane and I hold on to you, afraid you might loose me. You have not yet figured how to tell me apart by fear and the grotesque way I have of speaking during intimacy, like when we are scheming for loose thread in torn rags.
And every smile is not a funeral rite. Sometimes the wind is out and we are all just fine. Mine is only to make connections to things you rule unspeakable, like rags outworn from morning songs. Let the neighbours come knocking a few days from now.
We will be in our poses and they will not be able to tell us apart. Your head will be bent as if to the noise outside the shutters, where maybe my words will gather. It is crucial you don’t loose me. Maybe one day you will meet me walking down the street, missing the arm you are holding.