where my towel is

they scanned my head and chest
and found nothing wrong.
how odd, I thought, that this heart and mind
are fine.

three days ago I swore to my closest friends
that I would kill myself in three days.
I am so often the last one awake
with a working memory.

Hurt is not destroyed, I was saying.
but bridging this gap is like weaving a masterpiece.
then I asked my chemist friend about how a towel dries
as we walked around a sleeping town at five.

is it true, I asked, that the change is valence?
an electron lost and gained by heat in a chain in the breeze
all across a stream of moving air? one loses another gains?
the rubbed charge picks the molecule apart? breaks it up?

will someday dioxide tempt the hydrogen again? across what scar?
I have no polarity, carry no valence, I said, and so I lost my charge.
If I was Shinto I'd cut out my guts right now,
but they had mastered timing and I am just a white liar.

Yesterday I shit out a spark the size of a starfruit.
the lights flickered and went dead.
Morrissey, you fucking liar. Every filament has an end.
How odd it is to be alright in the heart and head.