WE LIVE IN CONTIGUOUS ROOMS

WE LIVE IN CONTIGUOUS ROOMS
Kyle Hemmings

You portion out the rain in zip-loc bags. I swim side-stroke under low sky.
You drop kittens in your sleep. I return from lunar explorations with stuffed
 aliens. Self-inflicted bruises from sleep deprivation. You desert all your broken
 toys. I fondle jack rabbits, the true hares of this earth. Under your last lover’s
 window, you hurled words as if spitballs. My last lover called me Slow-Hand Elmo
 and said to reach her by telegram. I disappeared between dots and dashes.
 I went paperless. You believe in circles and self-help books by East Village gurus.
I believe the dead like it where they are. In soft encounters, you set an internal
 alarm clock. Time’s up! Already? When you look away, I speak in a stream
 of fragments. You say: Do what you want! I say the other side of my brain wants
 vegetable pizza. But I’ll starve as a lefty, get it, Alice? In the shower, you sing
some corny love song, or hum your ex’s favorite–“Apples + Oranges,”
by Smashing Pumpkins. At the window of a mirror-less afternoon, I sign
 that in your absence I am impossible. Nobody is watching. Nobody.
You cringe below empty bird cages. I text you the joke of the day.
You are silent. I am mute.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.