shut up

If it is a magic moment that you are looking for, you’re not going to find it, I tell myself. I’m going to do better to enjoy a cup of coffee and stare at your white shoulders where your sweater falls away from them, to imagine I can smell the flawlessness of that skin, smell the change over time as my eyes map from shoulder to neck, from white skin to freckle to bra strap, the color and the textures change. I don’t see myself when I see you, I don’t see. Inside the gestalt under an awning shade, your hair, curls and circles and shades and smells and intents, recovering myself unwillingly only piecemeal, a last handshaking carrier signal that maintains my vision as a thing in the swim, stuttering I-I-I-I, would you shut up already?
What’s your favorite color? Have you ever been to Buffalo? There are any number of things I don’t believe you can tell me, that I don’t believe I would understand if you tried. Giving up on magic moments, don’t want to communicate. When your sweater falls away from your shoulder and makes a thing called my smile the best I can do is commune.