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Post-Modern Art

She says, “He is the Magician.”

I say, “I am the Fool.”

There are only two kinds of songs. Love songs and songs not about love. Same, too, about letters. This is not a love letter. But, it is not, not a love letter either. It may be a love song. 

She says, “He is unavailable.”

I already know.

I say, “He is a treehouse.” Insubstantial, temporary, solitary, and yet, a shelter.
 
I already know, but I'm pretending that I don't, just in case, just this once. Maybe he's just busy. Or maybe he's shy. Or a part of him is unsure. Maybe part of him is unsure, and the other part of him could be convinced to give it a go. Even though...I know.
 
I know things won't work out. They never do. But, I'm usually the indifferent one, the shrugger, the sigher, the "whatever" sayer.
 
I'm too cynical for crushes, I'll admit to being sideswiped by this one. 

Like a slug of cock sauce and duck blood: delicious, exotic on the tongue, fire in the gullet, foreign in the belly.
 
Maybe it happens to him all the time. 

Maybe that makes him the Fool. 

And me, the Magician.