Epistemology
They call it pulling the trigger
but it's more of a pushing-
pushing inward when you don't know
what to do with the target before you.
And it only takes a finger; it only takes
an inch.
I'm always one inch from the end.
I met you there and had the guts
to say it first: "Hey. Come here often?"
You were too rough
around the edges to find your other half
and settled for the female version of yourself,
inhaling with your face buried in my hair
like doing a line off a mirror
like research for an autobiography
like taking off your favorite blue jeans
in the black of night, knowing me by touch alone
or something even less.
Our love stays one inch from the end.
It's the best kind of amateur art-house cinema,
grazing the thigh of resolution with its
loose ends, never to be tied up.
The trigger is pulling me again.
You only call me baby when I'm crying
but before you can say it I slip on
my heels and run all the way to Cannes.
Then I come home to you.
Your headstone headboard, soiled sheets.
Your amber tinted glasses, kitchen with
the oven left on just in case.
You're one inch from the end
but don't finish the story without me.
We can polish each other to a gleam
and hang above the mantle
barrel to barrel
for better or worse.
but it's more of a pushing-
pushing inward when you don't know
what to do with the target before you.
And it only takes a finger; it only takes
an inch.
I'm always one inch from the end.
I met you there and had the guts
to say it first: "Hey. Come here often?"
You were too rough
around the edges to find your other half
and settled for the female version of yourself,
inhaling with your face buried in my hair
like doing a line off a mirror
like research for an autobiography
like taking off your favorite blue jeans
in the black of night, knowing me by touch alone
or something even less.
Our love stays one inch from the end.
It's the best kind of amateur art-house cinema,
grazing the thigh of resolution with its
loose ends, never to be tied up.
The trigger is pulling me again.
You only call me baby when I'm crying
but before you can say it I slip on
my heels and run all the way to Cannes.
Then I come home to you.
Your headstone headboard, soiled sheets.
Your amber tinted glasses, kitchen with
the oven left on just in case.
You're one inch from the end
but don't finish the story without me.
We can polish each other to a gleam
and hang above the mantle
barrel to barrel
for better or worse.