You feel like a miracle sliding down my throat, and you keep me from overthinking. Keep me present.

 I imagine in some distant future, you lock me up in a mansion with high walls in a canyon, keep me, own me. I am swilling red wine, trying to predict what comes next and lighting candles to keep you rich. I’ll listen to you muse about distant planes, feed your imagination, make slapstick jokes about God. We’ll have a dog, because fuck cats. Eventually a kid with massive bulging eyes who knows too much- because that's what we were- two weird, lonely kids, with adult faces. 

We’ll ask questions about who planted us here and try and come up with crafty answers. We’ll drown out the tik-toks and livestreamed apocalypse, fight to stay in our bodies, plant stuff, argue, fuck, repeat. Keep our instincts sharp. Keep the rumor mill pumping by making random disappearances and reappearances. 

Or maybe not, maybe I was your existential experiment. Maybe you needed me to fill in the gaps about your understanding in the world, before you surrender to the chaos. Something you were trying on. 

We are the designer t-shirt. The good kind, understated, unpretentious (sort of), but good. Made with quality in mind. Seductively unattached, breathable. When you have THE designer t-shirt- it makes all your other t-shirts look low quality. We are of a heroic texture. The problem with borrowing the designer t-shirt, is it can change your whole perspective. Make all other t-shirts feel frumpy. And everything that is not it, will eventually look clumsy. Luxury-adjacent, not quite the thing you were looking for, a bad mimic, a synthetic knock off. But good fucking luck.