Open the book
You tore out some pages
Close it
You damaged the spine
Coercion of the past
I am retold all the stories
Taking place when you would bend the sides, the corners
I would scribble, underline, highlight
The pseudo-mafioso cafeteria, its chic clans
Classic cliques, allocated misfits
They fell for the game you played on them
I fell into your whirlpool of tastes,
Absorbed by all the senses, not just the tongue,
Then, with all abrupt justice, you sunk
Into the dead sea where bodies of “this is me” are treading
It’s not that they know better, it’s that they fight for group self-sacrifice
Apart, you and me, we’re off to where we started
Sandwiched between book shelves and reeking dust,
Five lunch tables away, half a continent to swim under.
In their eyes, we were the future rock stars to be, or revolting hippies,
Those fucking anarchist signs, nazi engravings
Those rolled up kilts,
The after-school change of shoes for worthy wandering
In my eyes, you became those missing pages
Together, we were the finished novel, the most avant-guard,
No readers, no one overshadowing its process, no price, no free download, no possibility
Of a cinematic rendition, no material attachment
But hopefully a sequel, even may it suit the status quo.
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