today is friday, tomorrow will be sunday night

we are a mismatched set, you and I,

two heads bent together to form an empty vase. 

I am the imbecile who twists herself 

into a knot, and fills two seats.

She could fill none at all, he notes.

time has no meaning in this rush, though

it is the only thing you say matters. 

your eloquence is plastic, I say, 

and you wheel out a monotone of syllables 

that cancel themselves out, until we are both

black specks on a crowded canvas. 

He paints. The canvas is

a different sort of empty.

(title of this post ≠ title of the poem. special characters panel = <3.)