We're all dust at the end of the day.
I'm by no means the first to say "ashes to ashes"
but I have been feeling it lately,
less like a moving body and more like a combobulation of
lint, dirt, and human skin,
occasional jumper bobble.
Plastic.
People like to say that "we are all stardust",
I prefer "we're all dirt when it comes down to it."
Tell me the contents of your dreams when you're awake,
lie to me about the contents of your dreams when you're awake.
Tell me I was in your dreams
while you stay awake with me.
In response, I'll say: "I get killed in mine a lot."
And you'll say: "By who?"
And I'll say: "Strangers, mostly."
And you'll say: "It probably doesn't mean anything."
Apparently, we have enough microplastics to make a small spoon in our brains.
That would explain my frequent headaches,
and my strange affinity for Tupperware.
Would you come around for dinner? Bring your own cutlery. I'll divine your future
from the mulch at the bottom of your coffee cup.
You'll say: "I don't believe that stuff anyway,"
And I'll say: "Neither do I."
I would hand you my heart on a platter if asked,
and you would wince at it,
at how little blood there was.
There should be blood when one rips one's heart out.
It's hardly romantic otherwise.
Unfortunately neither of us have ever been romantics. That's probably why we end up here,
squinting into the future, tarot deck still in plastic-wrap.