At
the finishing point of a book
chosen
insecurely from the pilethat should rather be read
before anything else,
hours spent in the makeshift spot on
the mattress that has made a pit
hugging my ass like it was never to let go
of a favourite tenant,
like it had never known any other before
and the ass and I diving right into
the only habitat that would accept
us without anything asked for in return.
My sister,
she’s been on four phone calls
since the last few hours,
Four long intense conversations with
friends from the old days from the old cities,
while I’ve been twitching around in my pit
making an aspirational hollow
and measuring my irregular hair strands
with the words on the page
a message from the boy I fell for
a message from the boy I slept with
and the unmoving I stuck in the pit carrying
all my weight
for it would never complain about it
or anything else,
for it would never ask for a response
from she who mastered the fucking
art of unresponsiveness
like the hermit who but for their ideals
desire sociality, except that weighing
down deep in the pit was never
my ideal.