Scott, in unison or union

we are an undersized canvas,
the width and height

of a postage stamp which
a mouse might use
to mail a letter saying

please write soon,
it is lonesome here

if there were a mouse post

or mice could print script
with such clumsy paws.

I married a girl, Scott, painted her,

flayed her portrait from the frame
and stared at the wooden box that was her face.

For men as small as us, that sort of thing’s routine,
I’m sure.

I hung her on the refrigerator with alphabet magnets.
We are so little, you and I,

we are tiny idiots.

As the canvas gets smaller
its appetite for detail grows infinitesimally.
At this height, we could build a house

out of rat bones and decorate it with ashes.

We could pray to the miniature gods

not to be eaten by the mice

or we could
feed ourselves to them.

In the video game you are a man with a gun

and I am a man with a gun
and our only choices
are to shoot or to walk away

or to change weapons or to drink a magic potion
or or or.

When put this way
our choices are nearly limitless
and we are pixelated in our indecision.

I decide that I want you to kiss me, so I say
kiss me,

it’s easy: fill the shallow of my back with your hand
and pull me towards you.

To do this, you will have to empty your hands

but each time you try to let go of your revolver
you find something else

in its place, a bazooka maybe
or a comically large knife, a rifle
or a grenade; a series of useless things.

In the end
the best you can do is a fist

and you move towards me
holding it outstretched.

This time I ask you to kiss me, kiss me, I ask
and I ask again, pleading now,

but the question
leaves my mouth wet, unintelligible.

And my eye is already beginning to swell shut.
And I wish you would stop apologizing.