sometimes only

There is nothing beautiful to say about you me us this. I wrote you tirelessly for hours. I wrote you into flesh. I wrote down the shallow swoops of your shoulders grown into arms, the smooth plains of your thighs stretched into legs and that dumb face of yours that I can never really remember. I wrote you until you became opaque, as vivid as I could make you out to be. And then you told me I was crazy. You said, why are you so mean? There is nothing pleasant or lovely to say about me this I sorry, be right back, biting my tongue. While I'm at it here is a list of apologies: for my snappy jargon, my loose eyes, my rigid back, the crook of my spine, the in and out of a waist you can't find, this pretend skin on real skin, my dirty thoughts- let me pile them up, again this bad bad bad mouth. My poor friends who tirelessly waddle around me while I tirelessly write them into oblivion, where are you? I'm over here. Call me. Every landmark in us is forgettable. This next one too shall pass.