Right by Your Side

You will not find me in a phone book. I don't care how heavy it feels in your hands. Ripping it in half is a more plausible feat. There is no dossier on me either. Any appeal to the various intelligence communities will end in radio static. Surely my papers would give me away. Can a glass of water give you the coordinates to a river? What you may not understand is that there isn't a door to knock; no neon colored link to right click. Terrorize every mailing list that lays claim to some tenuous slice of my identity. They will seep into your dreams but bring you no closer to me. Return to sender is my astrological sign. Any investigative reporter that teases the possibility of a reveal will only pull my curtain back to unveil an underwhelming sight of abandon props. The production was canceled way before your impulse ticket purchase. No amount of dedicated sleuthing will grant you a surprise rendezvous with a shadow devoid of memory. I will see your boast of no quit, and raise you a certainty of no show. Dust for my fingerprints and I will sell my hands. The soup is always cold and the bed is never made. Who will be the subjects of your inquisition? More traction can be gained by quizzing pigeons than tracking down friendlies. No person makes it past the intimacy of my favorite ice-cream flavor. Whatever answer he or she may answer, it is nothing more than a misdirect. All of my provisions are second hand, and you don't know those hands. I have sent them away; some by oath, others by punishment. No matter the publicly that may advance my image, my biography is written in smoke. A bath of vinaigrette and citrus a day keeps the sent hounds in perpetual disarray. It is preferable to learn the grid well than to travel the mountain side. Tug the beard of your local shopping mall Santa Clause. Knock over trash cans. Climb the tallest tree. Once exhaustion has concluded all your efforts, I will mail you a piece of your jacket you mistook for the aggression of moths.