revisiting "fevers and mirrors," mini-aquariums, and your stupid smile.

despite the inbetweens, i root everything back to you,
colored blue by the television, singing the words you wish you could
call your own, petting me as i would hang upside from my bed,
wishing to be somewhere else, wishing to be a part of the void
and static. i've lost count of the amount of times i told you how badly i wanted
to be someone other than myself, more than just a fragment of the person you
may or may not have loved, but you swore you did.
i remember standing at the top of a boat and you held on to me;
side by side, we pretended to be bigger than the city.
we spit into the river and told it that it owed us nothing.
we'd spend hours here, for once, hidden within reach,
but no one was reaching,
stationed in front of a tank of swimming fish, trapped forever in their
back and forth and back and forth.
fascinated by their monotony, for hours we'd stay there,
trapped ourselves, sneaking kisses when the tourist's children
wouldn't see until the mop-topped boy would come and ask us
to leave.
you first charmed me on a stage and that's where i left you,
grinning in the spotlight, beckoning for eyes to see no further
than through you, but i did and denied it,
as i wanted to believe that you were as true as the words
that you held so dear, as terrible as they'd make me feel.