We discuss the text of our love.
No. Not Calibri.
No. Not Ariel.
Yes. Times New Roman. That looks nice.
That’s how you you sneak in your preference.
Like an old guard
full of fury, ready, making sense of things.
Like so many key strokes read to strike.
You construct a sensorium of express trains;
Roller coasters and drunk nights;
Our minds are synced and improvise
every moments when we feel out of touch
with a reality not quite there, not quite here,
but you love me. And I love you. And we love. Right?
Did we fuck up our book clubs?
Did you forget to love me for it?
The texts and words and novels–
Woolf, Hurston, Davis, Dubois…
And then. FUCK!
Like some bold sans serif I realize–
It was me!
(is it “san sarif”?)
(You dumb fuck, B!)
(You can’t even get the “sans serif” right!)
So we argue until I remember why I cannot have a relationship!
Mostly because I require too much proofreading.
Mostly because of not enough copy editing.
Or: too many copies and drafts and reports.
Not enough presses, prints, and publications.
12 point font, double spaced, Times New Roman
On the desk by morning.