substitution lime juice

you taught she how to save lives under a wish tree full of spare change but you could never take away the cheeky laugh from the girl on the subway, claiming underground beauty would never hold up what little was left of you. the difference between she (the poet) and you (the writer) doesn’t make a difference anymore. we’re blending forms, turning the pink function into a ridiculous way of telling fortunes or an explanation that an octopus would find repulsive.

you takes no time to tell his own objections to this change, takes a vicodin, takes his time to wash away the sidewalk Van Gogh (crown royal on the side) you takes a breath, a line, align, a pause, an opposition, a sigh, assigning she to watch his thumb wrestle with her nameless finger: because she never pulled my hair as I stared up her torso, she never pulled, she just felt.

you (the writer) {or a writer} tells she (the poet) {or a poet} about teaching, blushing, getting caught in the bramble-branches of language, the art of lose and failure. she (the poet) {or THE poet} tells you (the writer) {or THE writer} how the girl on the subway was only being polite, was drunk, was buzzing like a welcome mat, wasn’t right to say it’s nice to see you. the girl was a stranger for a reason and should stay that way.