Here’s something I need my old lover to know: you are the goblin who gave my soul beauty. Husband—I don’t mean the word for its commitment but rather its manipulation—husband your water fed the descending pools at the Vale of Cashmere till at some point in the last ten years it went still, eutrophied, and was drained altogether. I am tired of your algae and I am tired of being mounted on a spike on the long meadow.
Here’s something I need my new lover to know: you are so uncomplicated that I question everything. On Saturday while I was on acid and you weren’t I needed to mount the ball back into your septum before I damaged myself. I have fallen into a comfortable love-routine with you. Love-routine? Lay in bed and stencil magnets, lose at chess, watch you leave unceremoniously without prolonged kisses. Your maturity makes me feel toddling, it makes me feel like you are slipping right through me but then you are there. temporary Husband—I use the term lightly and kindly for you—you should probably find a corner for yourself on this square-mile earth where you can sit away from me, cause I will eat up my own soul which I was told to find beautiful and to love so much.
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