Bad at Looking

Inside

me there are approximately one thousand

white beans and this is what I am

made of and when I run my hands through

them they are slimy but in the way of

snails or egg whites not in the way of

rot. I think you carry some

bit of the moon around

in your backpack, but not the rock, the

moon in the sky, the concept of

the moon, the one that glows and

tells stories. I am always tilting my

head at you like one

of those birds you see on

line, hoping to catch a glimpse of

that slice of it, but it's

hiding just behind you most of the

time except after a few glasses of

wine in a candlelit room. You wear very

soft sweaters and I have a propensity

for fibers. The first time we

truly spoke to each other, like a bad

omen, directly preceded a period of fruit fly

infestation so severe that it nearly

drove me to madness. I wanted to be

your friend anyway, very badly, near

embarrassing how badly. How do

I tell someone at a party that we know

each other through the strings tied

around our ankles, that we keep tripping

over each other? I don't know how

to tell anything to anyone, but somehow you

always seem to know what I mean.