Sep 14, 2007
I made your necklace into a raft. I am floating out to sea; half asleep in a hard-pulling current, currently.
Your necklace is an ibex running at intense speeds gaining ground on its mate.
I slipped your necklace into a safe deposit box for the future. It will mature.
I took the beads from your necklace and sprinkled them over my hands as though they were my connection to the weather.
I wrapped your necklace around my wrist and danced around my room without music with no one watching.
I noted the absence of your necklace despite knowing exactly where it was.
I spilled milk over your necklace and it reminded me of cereal.
I fixed your necklace's clamp and was never thanked by you or the necklace.
I cleaned the apartment and put on a brand new shiny suit to impress your necklace.
I introduced your necklace to a nice young Jewish boy. He ordered your necklace a steak sandwich and a bloody Mary.
I showed your necklace some internet porn by accident.
I soiled your poor necklace, I did, I did and I am sorry, but I did.
Your necklace is a sturdy table with a cat sidling over it searching for attention.
I read some Italo Calvino aloud and your necklace fell asleep. How rude.
I made a nice breakfast in bed for your necklace: a feta-spinach omelet, bacon, toast with jam and a healthy glass of orange juice. Your necklace needs breakfast if it is going to glimmer and shine at its full potential.
Your necklace will fill my resting place with dirt and lay a single rose upon my goddamn grave, I tell you.
(You left your necklace at my apartment, by the way.)