if aliens dressed you. addressed you. and i danced on your bouquets like graves. no, not like that. let's stop the spewing. like the bad poetry i used to write in the furnace room of the basement when i was young. and suddenly sticking my head in the furnace was a better alternative than that spot. the spot. locations of terror masked out by constant squares of linoleum. i am not like you. here. not there. nowhere it seems is anywhere different. than. anyway. so, we're the same. i hone in on you. reel you in like fishes struggling at the end of reels. to be caught. and when you are we and we sometimes catches my eye. i don't drop the pan. not even though it's hot. stop the shout. make black turn soundward. drown my ears until they disappear. I don't know. I DON'T KNOW, ANYMORE. maybe that's the point. when there isn't a point. the legs of the compass swing loose and unafraid. the dull end skimming the surface like my words in your throat when you remember me late at night like those things you meant to do but forgot. simpler maybe i'll seem unpronged, without light. and maybe you'll start.