He actually told me his intelligence was his greatest trait.

It was five-fifty-three when he uttered it: sonder.
She closed her eyes and smiled but under
those naked oiled eyelids, she glimpsed her
brain. Her ire, provoked and then abated,
through gorged crop whispered about how it hated
that though it was beating his heart was quite dead.

He lies, prostrate, in an immaculate temple
where he worships Himself and his alms are ample
because his heart is in poverty and the pull
of her graciousness demands his fears subside.

Sonder, that we lead motley lives beside
each other, coyly aired in the ides
of July was her occasion to peruse
her own information to shatter his unworldly ruse
(the kind that only a sleaze would use).

It was five-fifty-five when she said it:

Your marionette is a dollar store caricature of yourself. You sonder this and saudade that while your slimy fingers pull nylon strings that show everyone how smart you are, how poetic, how profound. Do you honestly think I’m so simple I’d buy that performance? What an insult. Fuck off with your theatrics and fuck way off with your props. Crawl out of the castelet, grovel for the audience, get an Amtrak business class back to the real word. Relax, business is where they have the wine - you won’t miss communion with yourself. Sonder? You’d never know the word.

Silence, then the warbling of a sparrow
pierced their rage like an arrow
and, oh ...
if it didn’t feel so good