Drive by

"What was a fat child in 1940's New York without her kazoo?" -Emma Forrest

Let me be the first to break your spine and leave pieces of me in your various folds.
The stamp reads today's date and it's typeface makes me miss every night I unintentionally spent with my steel-gray type writer.
I could scrawl my name onto you, like personal property, were this another time.
It's sad to think how modern everything has become.
Instead our moments will be private; all the idiosyncratic gestures you evoke seen only by passing strangers and bitten coffee stirrers.
When I read, I can never quite comprehend what constitutes the end.

When I close my eyes, the clarity is blinding.
We're past all comfortable reference points, ones we lived so hard to discover.
Two tall boys, empty as discarded beer bottles.
The want that remains is salt on open flesh, unfashionably gaping.
What created the hangover which we have accepted to wake with;
Both, with hands that continue vain attempts at rubbing faulted feelings away?
I cannot say.
I'm too far away.