Ars nova, ars subtilior

You don’t know what to say to me. You don’t know what I’ll understand. And if you do say something, you don’t know how I’ll take it. So you say nothing. You decide it’s not worth the risk. Your mood changes like moonrise over dirty latitude. You raise a blade. You tighten your grip on an edge hard as unreturned love. You didn’t expect that when I resurfaced, I’d be smiling through wet hair. You got me good there, then you got me bad. But though I blow you off, it’s all pretend. I pray for you to land your gaze on me like a rocket ship, settling into the red dust of a ridge on an aching planet. But when the astronaut radios back to Houston, Houston says, go fuck yourself. Cut the bullshit. Drop the line. Oh, judge me all you like. Old habits, new passions. Stigmata freckling my torso like stars, wheeling. Punish me all you like, with everything you say and don’t. You don’t know why I am the way that I am. You don’t know what I’ll misunderstand. And if you do try to get through to me,…