he’s walking and loving like he’s twisted in fishing line: fragile, dependent, too heavy on his own. and he sees you like you’re both already dead: in the light of the tacky colored glass lamps hanging above you, mistletoe, he’s sitting silently and with his wrist on the hook, and as you tell him he cannot love,

he’s up in the early mornings or late nights: staring out the window, like any cliche you both had laughed at, with his fists pale and cracked in the folds of his sheets. he is the walking image of ideal: puppeted by himself, fishing for himself, giving bait in love so dearly he refuses to receive (another cliche but you haven’t talked about nor seen this one). but here is what is not cliche: he is sitting in the middle of dust so thick it’s snow, glass sheen over his eyes, unmoving lips and in his hand is your glove, as if he is holding what he never did or could,

he’s so callous it hurts: his hands are blistered but against shattered glass he is delicate. he’s so trusting it bleeds: his eyes scream gunmetal but to you they rust. he’s so- it- but-

he is sitting alone for you. at metal tables in water filled rooms and at booths next to where you were. he is alone at a cafe. a table for two. he is calling despair by its first name and walking towards it with masks and, of course, himself. he is seeking himself by seeking you. he is hoping to find you but not himself. he is crashing through the window with red on his back. he is walking forward like he can’t smell the scent of his blood in the wind. he is going upstream against you: for you.

there is no conclusion here. there are only unmanned nets and trapped whales with their snakes long gone. there is no conclusio