XXS

You ask if the crossed line
Affected any friends of mine
And I hope that somehow my answer excludes me this time
We take the bikes out for a ride
Miriam falls at the top of the drive
And I stay up late listening to true crime
At least you won’t remember me
I never click ‘remember me'
A cache of muscle memory
Is hardly documentary
But I’m a mess, XXS
You wouldn’t settle for any less
In my mind I take the Red line, dressed
Impressively, and I only speak when pressed
Telegraph Hill in ‘84;
Woman I don’t know anymore;
The decentralized networks that ran us aground and ashore
But I am still a worrier
Blood in my ears is a barrier
Between me and the headlines I wish I could simply ignore
At least you won’t remember me
I never click ‘remember me'
And I am what I’m supposed to be
I change my profile’s privacy
I’m a mess, XXS
You wouldn’t settle for any less
I am poised and I am self-possessed
An avatar; a scimitar; bright-eyed; blessed
I bike home with all my bruises
You never name the one who loses
At least you won’t remember me
I never click ‘remember me'
A cache of muscle memories
Is hardly documentary