This is a poem about the way you move when I see you talking to me with words that are made of lines.

I do not know how else to explain it. When I worked for the paper all I ever did was smudge oil on my face. I was violent. I smoked as if I were a gorgeous woman.

When I dreamed of you talking I saw lines of text like the great articles of god and when I woke I never wrote this down. Instead, I wrote poems made of the things you didn’t say and when you never said them I felt alone.

I wanted to promise you my love and then I thought better of it. I want to promise you my love but I’m feeling so goddamn happy.