Some days, I am her handy
tech support with a
cock
She calls me to fix
computer, or operate her fax machinecan't figure out how to
operate her fax machine.
Other times, she calls upon me when
her cigarettes have run out and she wants something
to do with her mouth, or her hands, or her lips.
Sometimes, I am her
dark mistress,
providing moments of
poem song that are never about me,
no matter how much they resemble our lives.
Her words
carve moments of experience into pieces
that can be digested, analysed. There is no room for discusion.
it is
art, not life.
She tries to find reasons for me to leave.
Throwing constructs in ocean waves,
trying to find one that fits.
I am her
deus ex machina, and her
chortling villain.
Maybe one day, I will be
just me