Begin Communication.
Begin communication. Pause, question everything. Stop. Erase.
Begin communication. Cough, disingenuously. Stop. Erase.
Begin communication. I am the same as you and completely different.
The similitude, the tom-tom heart under a bellows of rib and muscle and hope, a cape of derma, to protect, to feel, our parallel fingernails running up and down blue jean threads, the desire for more, the desire for love, our eventual shared paradise of oblivion. All upon a singular class M planet in the middle of an unfathomable cosmos.
And we are different. We laugh and grumble at different parts of The Graduate, disagree on which Paul Simon album reigns supreme. We are tempestuous magicians with our moods, wine glass adversaries, conversational expats. You don’t love pickles the way I love pickles.
My love of pickles makes you doubt me — you see it as a fashionable fondness, to set myself apart from the swarming self-editorializing masses. Like a bad ponytail, a dramatic insistence upon fixed-gear bikes. The high-fidelity facists.
Your doubt is a crust of snow, materialized in the middle of night, bringing stinging winds, small tornados of white dust whirling behind passing cars. A bear, roaring hoary, unforgiving. Ice on my stoop crackles underfoot, and I sip coffee outside with my shoulders hunched as if to summon heat.
Reborn in the flick of lighter, a mid-afternoon fire might finally save us from the serpentine petty threads. If we could only survive this winter.
Jódete.