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I consider myself flexible in awkward positions. Not a home wrecker, but I do knock. And you and I are pals. The kind that open up to each other, but keep mouths at a safe distance. But I cannot amend all tongues. I walk the dubious centerfold of your eye-line, friend. I carry my purse on the same side you walk next to me to avoid hand, to avoid saying anything small. We are the shredded fuse, the rebound wires commencing, badly rerouted and iniquitous. We are the failed test of the emergency buddy system. Chums. I am a derelict without furniture or life signs, painting your posture from distance that can fit inside the palm of your hand. Though we share ice cream instead of pipedreams, I know you'd never be lover to another poet because you are one. And the fear of being served a reflection in the way that you have served some, is a glass house you are not ready to escape from. I'll keep liking mint, while you go for chocolate. Conundrums I can't seem to get away from. You are just another sheep jumping the fence in my nightmares. Counting out numerical complacency, a platonic answer with a nod-off. Like a million hairs you've grown near your mouth plowed down, rough and sore. My beard too wants to be a little fucked and worn, but the time is not now, if not never. Not before, during or after her, your lover, another, or the next chapter. So lets just say, lets just stay friends, forever. There is no title for our book cover-up, so I will keep reading like a brood kept laboring. Take a long walk off my short feet, my stomach pleads hunger no matter how much I eat and its open mouth aches. Where there should be butterflies there are moths. Eating through my loins like loincloth. If there's a map to things spoken, friend we'll see we are way off. Buddies. You're the worst kind because you wont even reject me physically, we can't even celebrate celibacy. I am your dirty washboard and yet have never had you inside me. There's no declaration in our country. Pals. You tug the one red string that seems to run through everything. I seek your flying patterns from behind, the blue leading the blind. Friends. No beneficiary. So we stay.