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I wrote this for you while watching wrestling

I do not know how to call and that is why I sit here crumbling up this paper bag and folding it a couple times and tossing it into the red garbage can next to the black lamp

I put on a shirt and walk across the room to the mirror. I walk back across the room
and take the shirt off and put another on and walk over to the mirror.
I can see your light through this pollution and these miles.
Someone drives a car and looks through the windshield
while two passengers on cell phones smoke cigarettes and
talk about things that have happened recently. Water moves over the rock,
touching the rock. A hand drops a pan in a sink.
The ocean splashes on the boat and I dance nearby and look over at you.
We begin to dance together in a small room by the speaker. The strobe light
flashes at the empty party and I walk with you on the asphalt nearing the patch of grass.
You walk on the yellow line in the street and I walk behind you and put my hands
on your shoulders and we both walk that line, and I tell you
not to look at the line but to look ahead. You look up and stumble
while I hold onto your shoulders so I stumble with you and I am glad
to lose my balance with you near the tree with the swing swaying
in the breeze that carries these leaves towards us while the clouds
move in front of the moon and it gets darker and I grip tighter
as we walk, but no worry. No worry. The large animal jumps from the tree.
I run over to it. It slashes my skin and my shirt
and my headband and my hair moves in the wind.
As I bleed I look over to you and I try to tell you with my eyes
that you are worth protecting. The animal knocks me to the ground
and stands over me. I swing a stick at it and scream and look into it’s eyes.
It bites my neck and you throw a rock that knocks it out, still biting my neck.
Together we open its mouth with our hands. I roll on the grass, come here please.
Lay here with me. Please. There are birds flying through the clouds. Let’s watch them.
The grass is wet and bloody and I pull you in and lean on your skin with my clothing.
The light shines through the window. There is a wind chime hanging over a porch.
I go to sleep on the couch with my elbows on my knees and my hands on my chin.
The baseball players sing along with the recording of the national anthem
holding their hats over their hearts.

The grey person returns home to find the kitten has turned into a catperson.