关于两个很纠结，很难搞的人之间的爱情

Bad at Looking

Inside
me there are approximately one thousand
white beans and this is what I am
made of and when I run my hands through
them they are slimy but in the way of
snails or egg whites not in the way of
rot. I think you carry some
bit of the moon around
in your backpack, but not the rock, the
moon in the sky, the concept of
the moon, the one that glows and
tells stories. I am always tilting my
head at you like one
of those birds you see on
line, hoping to catch a glimpse of
that slice of it, but it's
hiding just behind you most of the
time except after a few glasses of
wine in a candlelit room. You wear very
soft sweaters and I have a propensity
for fibers. The first time we
truly spoke to each other, like a bad
omen, directly preceded a period of fruit fly
infestation so severe that it nearly
drove me to madness. I wanted to be
your friend anyway, very badly, near
embarrassing how badly. How do
I tell someone at a party that we know
each other through the strings tied
around our ankles, that we keep tripping
over each other? I don't know how
to tell anything to anyone, but somehow you
always seem to know what I mean.