On the days of unbrushed teeth,
In the sanctuaries of our beds,
Please help us to accept our wisdom
In the glory of our grossness.
Give me that hot robot love.
Oil-slicked parts fitting together perfectly,
Tasting all of you with my cog-teeth kisses.
You and I are electric, baby.
We sit in empty offices
Performing empty tasks
For empty people
With empty minds.
Day by day
We feel ourselves empty
Still promising ourselves more.
No unit of time captures precisely enough;
No combination of words adequately conveys:
The severity of my missing you,
The richness of my love.
Welcome yourself to Yesvember.
Accept one month of possibilities
Knowing that success is in trusting yourself.
So many worlds can be built in thirty days.
I clutch hard.
Wet eyes bulge wide.
I suffocate. I drown.
Culprit and victim.
Every single time.
Sitting on drafts.
Long-necked, leggy and awkward.
Giving way to flocculent notions.
Let prehensile tongues masticate
The roughage of verdant words.
Day one without you:
I burrow in schematics of electrical things. In trying to understand them, I hope I can forget you. I fail in both regards. I choke myself with ruggedized cables. I fail a third time.
Day two without you:
I surround myself with people who are not you. I remember that there are people who are not you. I eat a buffet lunch. I sob into a shakey sleep, fingers grasping the palm of my phone.
Day three without you:
The people still are not you. They are offensively not you. I salt my Caesar salad with tears at the table. I learn that grief is unappetising. I acknowledge that this is grief. I push my plate away. I hope I lose too much weight.
Day four without you:
I drive. I drive as far as I can. I have to stop to pee. I whisper promises to trinkets in shops. I abandon them before committing to the checkout. I delete your number. I switch off my phone.
Day five without you:
I try not to write about you. Nothing rhymes. I turn my phone back on. I reply to my mum’s messages. I wait for a text from an unknown number.
There’s a lesson in this, I tell myself.
Desperately trying rationalise meaning;
Burrowing for golden nuggets of sweetcorn in my own shit.
Messy either way.
Awed by your apparent inability to listen and unwillingness to understand
I wonder how we can possibly be of the same species.
Maybe we’re not.