If she were to split him down the middle,
making a heavy mark
down his lopsided center
what would leak?
This is her imagination, her shiny new desire;
to understand his innards.
His concave stomach
and jutting rib cage.
She gives in
to her longing curiosity
and sees he is bleeding
a variety of substances
she cannot swallow or wipe away.
So she returns to the original problem,
the words he used.
She wrote them down in flawless unquestionable penmanship.
When he used his mouth to speak, especially ‘always,’
his sounds were proven impermanent.
She often wondered if he treated his body like this.
If they would have
carefully smashed their lips together,
and pressed each others hands against flesh
would it have meant more then?
To her, it would only have been
another chance to dig into his organs
and discover what truth resides there.
It would have meant nothing more.
Or is his story a series of selective patches,
and when one patch expires,
so do all of his recent proclamations?
Is every claim he makes
held by an expiration date?
Her obsession with his character
came from an original love.
But as she endlessly attempted
to dodge his brilliant deceptions, his accidental manipulations,
she found her hands
too busy to continue,
her heart too heavy to crave,
and her belief in him
too strong to remove.
She had discovered
her own casual indifference.