the cubist

I hang onto you like you’ll leave me if I blink

I secretly want you to touch me
in public, preferably—a bookstore, a museum
on the streets, in front of passersby
as if I could feel your love in sharp pieces
   as if time were approaching death
      as if I had a choice in our certain fate
            I don’t want to miss
                        your inside-out feelings
put together on your skin
                                  a regurgitated array of storm clouds

the cubist would say
I could rearrange you the way I’d like
or that I could look at you unassembled
either way
I like you dismantled and in the dark—
a hundred thousand pieces
            on their backs
                        lying in a peculiar angle
you’d still carry a sense of conviction
                                                although estranged

I know you even when I try to forget

I know you even when you’re in pieces

and
the more things change
                              the more they stay the same
the sum of your parts
out of order: familiar but new
remind me of my place in your world—:
a mustard stain on your favorite pair of slacks.

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About laurenfedorko

Aspiring writer. English teacher. Philosophy: know more about the world than you did yesterday and lessen the suffering of others.
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