Elegy - written in a sofa graveyard.

You don't get it
You're always the same
Underdressed and
Underspent - and I'm kind of
like you
But a little less sure about
being uncertain.

What happened?
You don't remember anything
Or you do but you remember
it so so so differently than
I remember it
or how I thought
you would remember our
twelve-hour-straight-screams
About The Fountainhead, sex, Kurosawa
predetermination, your brother,
my mother -
and we found the secret passageways
in the basement and through the roofs
And we climbed up next to the
gargoyles and found suicide and
lovetape letters.

One said:

You remind me of three people.
One, because of your command over the kind and lost.
Two, because you take advantage of it.
Three, because you don't care.

Another said:

It's cold here.


You were willing to ask questions
And clean up my ginger ale puke.
I guessed how many items were
in your fridge - minimalism.

I told you that you were a genius
You said you were not.
You said I was beautiful
I said I was not.

This is terrible, the end
of a findingship.
I can't do it anymore.