The Allegory of Our Interlocked Fingers

Sometimes I look at you
with your serial killer
eyes
and wonder what you’ve seen
in me
and in this short life.

You spew sentences
at me
without saying anything but words.
I don’t know you.

You keep repeating
these generalizations:
you know what I’m saying
you can see where I’m going
And I’m supposed to understand you.

You stand there,
hands in pockets
circles under eyes
and tell me you want to know me
and I think maybe you do.

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