The Not-Thing

I forget myself and remember you
not mine! not mine! not mine!
and your name flashes in my mouth for a second before choked down
I can’t even touch your hand in public
and the name, your name, snaps my brain around an image
Don’t wake me when you leave
and I am sick with the wanting and the suppressing and the forgetting and the de-claiming and the covering and the distracting
You make me see Morocco

I’ll be sad when the bruises you left on me start to fade.

Your name feels like the cocaine blues.
I’m too tired to fuck.
Too restless to sleep.

And waiting, patiently, for the nothing pretending not to know the word carefully aloof at the mention of your name. Promise. Of course. Promise. Of course. Of course.

I am here, forgetting my place. Promise. Of course.

Of course. Not mine.