when i’m doing something & then remember that timothée chalamet

said his go to karaoke song is “heart shaped box”

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don’t make the two sides of my brain meet

like that. imagining his deep croon unfurling 

amid that opening riff feels like two forks

getting stuck together, pulling at the locked prongs.

 

like i’m convinced i misread it, whatever interview,

there was no context & i’m letting it exist in my brain

as this little burn hole, white light leaking through.

 

all parts of it i can’t handle— the idea of his incredible quiet:

when i am weak almost whispered between his bangs,

pulls my eyeballs together like string,

& the other euphoria, the one of cymbals & wailing, 

i think it would swallow him,

 

but god forbid if he could pull it off, 

growl the song like it was his—

i’d be dead by the solo. 

he’d be eating orchids for me.

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