I do not write; I am a prospector.
I mine the alphabet
as I make reflections of our faces.
But these portraits are lopsided.
They didn’t get the angle quite right
when they mounted us on the walls.
The images are crooked.
They are only my perspective.
I am not writing.
I am trying to talk to you,
with you in a world where honest spaces
are few and far between,
a planet’s worth of emotionless ‘how are you’s
and obligatory caring.
We are nice people; that’s what we do:
appear to care.
Or truly care
then get cheated for it.
I do not write.
I attempt to be the invisible version
of a professional cuddler.
A friend to the fellow lonely.
Whatever this may be,
I refute that it is writing.
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