Things I'm doing when I don't want to be doing nothing, when wanting enters into it, like twitching just the last knuckle of my pinky to get a server's attention, that kind of control I'd like over life. Just a gradient, a one shade left toward life from death, your grandfather's eyelid trembling as you raise your lips from his cool forehead, tasting powder on your lips. And I like starting things with "And"; it feels like stepping from a place we were together just a second ago, now invisible, like all past moments that were too important to waste on writing down. And I was there then, in the pre-And, empty as a necked beer returned for the small change, and you weren't, until I invented you. Hold me like a rolled sleeve holds laundry water. Cling to me like the yos of distant bros cling to your skirt as you walk home late alone through the Market in a drunk of terror. It's not even mini, the skirt, you think. Who gets stiff over shins? Even hanged men. I'm not different: your bare legs walking snip my thoughts like scissors made of light. It's just that you're walking toward me, your eyes transforming my eyes on you.
© JM Francheteau