The Soft Denial

Sad African Woman Sitting On Couch

I notice a pleat in a cardboard box which contained a fan, I placed the fan in the bedroom window. I notice the pleat as a default reaction to my catatonic splendor, focusing on nothing the concoctions of sunlight on subject transcend the traffic noise filtered through the fan’s plastic blades. I want a person here instead. A woman with tall eyes that leak mascara as she blinks out of excitement. She’ll know my name and sing it like a pop song. I’ll know hers too and the very mention of syllable sounds fixed in her name shall invigorate a tripwire heart-string, “pluck it darlin,’” and she’ll be perfect and I’ll be happy.

I maneuver throughout the city.
I notice a tear in a strange woman’s stockings.
I have stitches she can use to conceal her naked kneecap.
I unravel them by snipping a knot that secures a stitch, I tie the loose end
Onto a pen and twirl until I feel the sutures slither through blood and muscle.

The wound is on my cheek. I say hello directly through the aperture.

She seems frightened, her hands afflicted with tremors, she runs.

The wound hemorrhages. I stand frigid wondering if she’s coming back.

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