You take notes on conspiracy theories
in a dark room lit only by the screen.
Nocturnal like an owl with too many thoughts.
What truth is so elusive that you trade
your dreams for headaches and crushed
cans now empty of caffeine?
You tried to spell it out for me once.
To break it into pieces like the cuts of meat
on a cow. Always prioritizing the rarest
points of interest.
I could not be convinced of anything
holding onto my small world like
a kid clinging desperately to a kite
at the center of violent gusts.
You traced symbols on my notebooks,
and insisted that there was far
more to us than we understood.
The concept of coincidence too boring
for the crows swapping stories on the wire.
Thinking back on it now,
it wasn’t the wind I was fighting,
but the urge to just finally let it fly.
Teleporting Typewriter 