What feels thickly when left for grasps
comes out smokeside in deliberation.
Much like the slip of lip I don’t measure anymore.

There is nothing for me to hoard.
A negation is kept.

Pity-pressed nonentity to make taut my patience.
I am not a good thing,
but a trigger-state prompt unspecific to time and instance.

Every snap is mine to the meat.
They are propagated in cause or stake -
perhaps through hate-inspired internalization.
None are usually revoked.

I am tired of being this way. 

1. Dress how we did the last time we saw each other

I will wear:
- a long chiffon skirt dishevel-prone due draught or escape or sprawl. 
- a snug shirt that makes me disappear by profile, so to render - I con myself  
(then hawked by people who don’t matter anymore).
- a viscose hijab, voluminous to hide all incriminations and thoughts in my folds;
you may distract yourself in only these rose-ruches of mine, none else. 
- a faint smile and rapt, dark eyes.

You will wear:
- a slate grey shirt blameless to your form due brisk and good-fit and sang-froid.
- dark slacks that bear your stride in appealing male purpose, so in gender – you
con yourself (then screwed over by people who somehow matter).
- a beanie, slack-trendy cool to tuck over late nights and thoughts in your threads; so I may distract myself with tangibles of hat and hair, instead of mind.  
- upturned lips and curious, lynx eyes.

2. Bring a world map, I got the two Exacto knives

You’ll sit to my left. We’ll unroll the large atlas poster flat over a table. Look at the world condensed 1x2 meters. Unfathomable. Humanity is about bridging gaps. Silence. We’ll take our Exactos. You’ll draw yours over Central America. I’ll hover mine above South-East Asia. We’ll carve out our countries with scrupulous attention. “I’m on the Tropic of Cancer,” I’ll say. “I’m closer to it than the equator,” you’ll say. We’ll finish, pinch our roots off the globe. We’ll stare at the small holes, tiny land-masses. Their absences are negligible. We are negligible.

3. Share

How I may interpret (the nuances in your voice / the fall of your paces / the breach of your blinks) your humidity.

in on and or astride this option-sieve,
like a lotus-flower bomb push and or fertility-pox
ever worthy of palm-rinds and or crave-binds.
it is less-uncease short of always and or
shrapnel in Omar’s eye and shoulder.

_

absolve to resolve?
i think not.

i am embittered 
before
i am empowered.

Hipster picnic and red paint -

when I close my eyes,

it’s not warm.

You were the dandelion

I wished on and blew away

with my allergies.

So, I drew you

all stem and fluff

and stuck you in a book

about rape. 

• snort freshly ground nutmeg every morning so my wings don’t sputter.
• drop whole anise in 9-to-5-office-workers’ back pockets so upon sitting on them for hours, they’d have semi-permanent flower prints on their ass-cheeks. When they get home, they’ll either get laid because their spouse thinks it’s cute or get dragged to the dermatologist because, “it may be a rare skin condition, dear.”
• ride match-sticks pretending I was a witch.
• interview male ladybugs to further my self-conducted study on insect gender identities, (“It’s so binary for them, dammit, life isn’t all black and white, all penis and vagina—” and I’d pat their antennas in sympathy, pour them more honey-tea while biting my cheeks).
• spike the nectar of flowers with Adderall because them stupid bees need it with their constant crew lovin’, beat-boxing, and rapping that one retarded Wiz Khalifa song (“Yeah, uh huh, you know what it iiiis”). 
• make rafts out of cinnamon sticks to float in petrol-puddles on rainy days
  and when the worms come out from the musky earth to begin their migration to the middle of the road, I’d chase after them, plead ardently for them to not go wriggle on out to the middle of the road to die, even though they’re kinda ugly and have really bad hygiene.
• do acrobatic stunts off cliffs by the ocean and crash mermaid weddings all dramatic for the delicious seaweed and coral cake.
• master the skill of intercepting mortal wishes in an effort to understand the human race before I doze off in walnut husks with a used cotton ball as a blanket some chick used to wipe her make-up off (it’s slightly crusty, but it smells like aloe, which is so nice).
• think of good things, so the sleep I pick from my eyes the following morning is sugar. 
• play extreme-mode hide-and-seek with fireflies in the city at night.

Post-Avengers/messing with an orna rickshaw-wala style/bored with my hijab style so bad, man.

Ceasefire pact with in and all cusp-ends mine deemed so such
a rush
-little anecdote of a prick, he is, that, that which begets 
this pull, 
       spends eye-whets,  
                tidies mouth of talk, 
this, this
hooded and harmed / hooded and armed spectrum I did 
birth/cause/neglect-feed 
true to my mental pose and sect of radix.

Bullet in my gullet, but a missile to my radha-ghada.

I’m so deep. I’m so fucking deep.

(Yield now: I can harbour a berry where you would brush lip.)

Autoroute 40 connecting Highway 417 westbound
(absent of the lurch custom-bred by louts; pothole-ridden,
Arab-fetish; kush-riddance,
where Marie-Claudette Tabarnak and Jean-Michel LeBlanc-Houle
don’t exist as potential employers from the fallen culture of a separatist market)
is where you’ll find me.

Lay out my duvet with the three menstruation-blood specks I woke to
on the mossy forest floor, under a tree with boughs like the arms of Hindu deities.

Having bailed a destination again,
I’ll be scenically straddling a hyphen of my own under a tree by the interstate fringe. 

Having shotgunned the following saris from Ma’s armoire for their sun-catching qualities—
 

• turquoise silk chundri with the gold hem 
• butter georgette with the jade and sky kimono strips and knit flowers
• pink and straw airy jute cotton  
• sheer pearl chiffon with the burgundy and ginger embroidery
• pumpkin georgette with the black-vined netted border
   

— I’ll make use of them by climbing a tree to the highest limb that doesn’t make my head spin when I look down from it. 

I’ll knot their ends securely around the branches, let the rest fall like a lady’s thick awning safe-havened. 
Let down myself in settles under a makeshift canopy, amid swims of day-shed.

Get out a jar of crunchy peanut butter and a spoon. 
Scoop.
Lick. 
Brood. 

i.
It was unto—
your singular coy,
the belled optics of your minded piths,
your minutiae,
the slight dulcets of you,
a smile and mythic—
this hold
of verves, dewed.


ii.
You are sweet;
you lend me better.


iii.
Thanks for this.
 

My Lord, grant me patience —
fricatives and festers do tempt
all the more 
when I am fire-borne.