“How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.”
--David Foster Wallace
I kiss your back while we sway
In and out of sleep,
The waves of unconsciousness lapping at our brains,
Wet drags of lips across
The nape of your neck...
Is anxiety a measure of regret?
Or of things unaddressed?
We live adrift in ape avatars sharing reality,
Blurting out utterances from meat holes,
That are somehow supposed to convey
Consciousness, the Suchness and the Void,
Of all the things that exist behind our eyes,
That we call “me...."