I met a man once whom I had met many times before.
He was and has never been the same man twice.
He forgets who he was for me and who I was for him.
He was and has never been the same man twice.
He forgets who he was for me and who I was for him.
There is a version of him that only belongs to himself.
He never says or does anything that others want him to say or do.
Because the worst thing he can ever imagine being is caged.
Except on days when the worst is being a cage.
He makes himself laugh
When he’s alone
He looks at the corners of rooms
At sleeves
Away
Immured.
I met the man once again.
He was just how he remembered himself.
Of course he was; how else could he be?
He thought, “Was that a lie?”
Before and after speaking.
He thought, “Was that a lie?”
Almost speaking it aloud.
The man never hurts himself.
Which self could he hurt?
None are around long enough.
The man never hurts himself.
He hurts when he hurts you.
Immured.