Someone else's music floats through the edge and the dogs bark window telling you something like "what is a sprawler?" It's someone who goes like this:
(Embodiment of sprawl. Illustration of sprawl.)
Your accidental likeness recreated or, if you will, regenerated everywhere you turn; you have to choose. It goes like this:
Is it late enough to care?
Her hand in mine. Your hand in mine. My heart in your mouth.
It's not taking the edge off anything, just making me sloppy.
The decision is mine. Someone else's decision wafts through and I take a bite. Spit it out. The menu is inedible. Your words are indelible. I will hold you to them. I will hold them against you.
There is no way around it, only through it.
We set things on fire to stop the fire. Sometimes that's the way it goes. This is the easy part. I have pictures of this. This is the hard part. That's the way it goes. The fire. Your heart. My music.
It's not taking the edge off anything.
My accidental decision. Is it late enough? Other people say this is possible. Other people have words for this possibility. Other people also have small, portable pools that they put water in and splash around. Other people also have broken hearts and broken nails and broken promises and broken televisions and everything is broken but everything, like the carousel, goes 'round again. Everything makes life noisy.
The next time you can choose another animal.
The next time you can let go of the idea of getting it right.
This time I will close the window but I will not let go of your hand.
