How is it
that there is still a word for this?
The quantized width
and depth of your bits
entering me, explicitly,
at many 10s of 1000s of cycles per minute,
eliciting a unique chemical response,
depending
much less
on the fragile and windswept vagaries
of your erstwhile intent
than the metamorphosed truth of
my present situation; what it feels like
to listen, again and again,
to the exact same missive
amid hundreds of disparate
days of this sprawling, unorganized
mess of a generation, I am glad
not to be able to express.
As is so often the case, I try
some of your lyrics
on for the occasion—breathlessly
moving my lips around, feeling
your words in my mouth.
