somehow, a rickety wooden desk fails to translate
into a rickety wooden casket. and, somehow, the
water that filled up the freshly dug grave, that
you had the desire to drown yourself in, fails to
translate into a much needed rainstorm.

so, write a song, or a book.
so, paint a canvas, or a mural.

but, make sure it's about how i only find it in
myself to appreciate broken, soft-edged, theorizing
boys, with ridiculous panning statements that take
the edge off of the natural chill. make it about
how it's so loud in here, that i can barely hear
my own breathing. make it about saying the wrong
name, synonym to guilt. make it about quiet nodding
(as if nodding could be loud) and poorly aligned prints.

and, i guess, if you want, you could make it about
teeth, cause i think yours are perfect, and is
unimportant as that may seem, it's really big.