This is the poem you never asked for and that I did not want to write.

But you never asked me, so here it is:

Wal-mart was out of coffee the day that we

Decided to make a large breakfast, and I was hung over and started drinking at ten .

And you have a permanent blush when humor over.

I would agree with you that your distance is infinite and that I should not try to define you

Whatever that is:

And the city-soaked stain of your syllogistic temperament took over when you and I ignored thanksgiving

And I will all the aplomb of the hideously out of place told you it wasn’t your fault

(and in fact nothing has been, but I won’t give you that

And you have so suggestively subjectified yourself that nothing ever will be)

(and the kind of thing I can’t put in to stories, just an FYI is

What color your eyes are but I’ll remember how your hair smelled

And I hope that’s not weird or anything), and

To be honest this is honestly too honest to my voice (I like

Word games and weird pauses when I talk) (and I’ve started moving my hands more---must stop

Zizek!)

And so thoughts:

(the rest of the space is yours please fill in

the spots where I came too close

to what is Real and had to stop)