Tell me that you do not think of me, that you
have forgotten the wild proscenium of cloud,
how bodies affix and then elide, the sky’s
stenography. I only ask for you to tell me
you have not forgotten the pink proscenium
of cloud, a testament to our duplicities, the sky’s
stenography. I ask for you to tell me again
that you do not think of me, all the implications
of cloud, a testament to my duplicities, the sky.
Each day brings new impossibilities, the fact
that you do not think of me, all the implications
of bodies, affixing and eliding. Let us create
each day a new impossibility; fact is
I’ve forgotten the pink cloud, the way
our bodies affix and then elide, is this
duplicity? Tell me that you think of me
that you haven’t forgotten the pink cloud, the way
implications vanished when we practiced
duplicity, tell me that you think of me
when the clouds align their pink mouths
the implications vanishing when we practice
fidelity, how bodies affix and then elide
when clouds align their pink mouths and still
you do not think of me. I only ask for
fidelity. Bodies affix and then elide,
so soon forgotten, each day—impossibility.
You do not think of me. I only ask for
that pink cloud, tell me
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