• If You See God (Or Your Lover) in the Flesh, Kill Them

    The white-wash–all of it
    was my idea of a perfect present
    for your lack of creativity. Bleaching out
    the bad is always a good option. The writings all
    over the wall was your idea of
    a joke; at least part of it.
    The other scribbled side seemed too slick to be
    a prank. Or a love letter.
    Most likely wu wei wasn't in your wisdom.
    Something that attached to you and didn't attach
    or creating something without creating it. Maybe it clings to
    the old tiles like tape. Messages of me from your past life
    that scream for another chance in P'u. Like two lines
    overlapping one after another. You're learning from nothing
    about my frugality. My finality in never being the best.
    I guess that's why you're
    scattering my lines like an uncoiling
    rope in hope of climbing up my yang.
    Too bad your yin is like a
    snake and–in the end–we're
    together and not together;
    my black lines underneath your bleached
    blows and we lie connected while
    segregating the world.