Somewhere amongst the creases and pops--
the fragrant past,
vagrant present--
there's a scene in vague technicolor
sometime after the big sleep
that reminds me of summer
and the crackle of expectations.
You quote James Dean or Lord Byron,
sweat in your bangs, eyes straining,
and I'm supposed to memorize along with you,
babble for Babylon.
Somewhere between the cells--the syllables--
of your words and the circumference
of your meaning, I find myself trying
so hard not to slap you.
I remember all of this so clearly, by accident,
tracing the veins you leave on paper folded
over and over, your arrogance a permanent stain,
word for word.
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