Pm/Phto: Thread

when you look at me and expect me to be bound to my past a yesterday me, a yesterday mind
a thread is pulled from the muddy world, a root, a bog, to the tip of my toe up through the asphalt and between the guardrails of my past into my past-past self.

he is the one that has to own up to who i've been who has to provide you with continuity who wants to seem all together, and unquestioning in his identity. he is the one who gets the first few cracks at owning my face at running the levers and chords behind my lips, and nose, and irises.

the thread you pull goes from my big toe to my hip bone to my rib bone connected to my shoulder bone connected to my remote control bone. to the little levers and pulleys behind my face keeping my smile gentle, my eyes interested, my ears perked to the comfortable conversation that depends on a common contemplation on what i did and said the last time we talked, on that we are not strangers. on a certain dance we are dancing, a ritual meant to keep me bound to then and you bound to then and both of us circling now. now. now. now we are here looking at each other faces wondering what the hell do i have in common with this person? how the hell do i get this conversation back on the topic of me? where is the next reference, anecdote, TV synopsis going to come from? will we ever fuck? can i tell you about my mother, and how i am guilty? will you neglect me too? please?

we both need the thread, we both need the past, we both need the constant.
you dearly hope that i am included in the last three 'we'-s.

and maybe i am. and maybe i'm not. maybe i will snip the thread, cut away from my past. become a stupid, feckless, innocent member of now. a member of now. a member of the crowd of firey impossible people that always seem to be arriving, leaving, staying, all at once.

you ask yourself: will he cut my thread too? set me free?
i ask myself: will you cut my thread too? set me free?
instead one of us talks about family guy. we both find it funny.