Today's fraying thread: Madison Flanders writes in "The Poet" about the disconnect between one poet and another, despite best hopes.

The Poet

Every word he spoke melted

As my mind etched and sketched them into an image of you

His chest felt slippery and hairy at the same time

He smelled like Jim Beam

And the inside of a microwave

He would kiss me

Until my lips were paper snowflakes

My tongue rolling over the

tiny chapped trenches

I hated it but I wanted it

I needed it

If somber were a scent he’d reek of it

The way my entire life reeked of the Dove Body lotion

I stole from CVS, holding your hand

My nose missed the smell of old spice and salt

And the laundry room I had to enter to get in your room

I wanted it to feel right.

He wore black in a Florida Summer with winter boots

Saying he was going to get coffee and write

Scrolling through his Facebook the entire time.

Tweeting about how we don’t have enough

Real human interaction

I wanted it to feel right

But I was sick of poetry

And he was allergic to my dog.