Probable Dementias

Sometimes she goes out of her way to give me a compliment. As if there's some bruise on my forehead that suggests. However subtle. That I feel less than adequate.

Sometimes she's a glue. Sometimes she's a solvent. Just as likely to create a bond as she is to destroy one. Small time tanning salons at the back of our throats constantly making rag dolls out of ghosts.

While the eyelashes on the light draw pin stripes along the staircase. Toadstools blossoming in the corners of my footsteps. While I sneak, all too noticed another pitbull into my tired head.

There is a formula I'm sure. To calculate. The distance between the first kiss and the last one. Taking into account Probable Dementias. And all the people between who make them feel that much farther apart.