Our systems of coordinates don’t match
so does the direction of the revolving doors
while I’m trying to get out,
you are on your way in.
You are a magnifying glass,
I am only a reflection of me.
When we converse,–
I say a lot;
you are the static on the other end of the line.
You are long legs, the fetish,–
I’m your disfigured shadow on the floor.
— “A pardon, what time is now?”
— “What does a series of faceless frames really mean?”