Ownership

I would take your lungs if I could. Personal property becomes pertinent these days, like willow waves pressed between pages you wrote love notes on. “I’ll love you forever, put your legs on my shoulders, kiss me ’til the moonlight breaks like a lightbulb in my clench fists.” Remember when you scrawled this? I would have written your name on these fingers like a burn mark, some sort of red scar, visual confirmation of the truth we both knew and grew to detest; I could never love you best, never better than the white powders or fermented wheat, too literally written on this paper and too literally observed in your freedom vision quests. You never touched me best either so I won’t pretend this is about being upset. Possession is nine tenths of the reason we split into you versus me, one eighth of my fingers massaging my temples off of blue line trains in the summer, two fifteenths of the paint on my walls, six thirds of why I couldn’t imagine why you wouldn’t stay. I still pray to thank some sort of energy for your highway robbery, you walking away, your dereliction of duties and abandonment of space. Keep your keys to keep losing face. I keep my eyes up now to keep up my pace.

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