Idiot Box: ‘What We Talk About When We Talk About Michael Westen’

What We Talk About When We Talk About Michael Westen

You are only a handful of dress shirts, but you are a different man each time you wear them.  Walk, accent, tie or no tie.  It’s only when you’re stripped bare that I recognize you at all.  These days, you’re naked less and less often until I have forgotten all but entirely what you look like.

Florida heat has scorched our brains in a way mint and rum cannot fix.  We drink anyways.  My CIA contact says I should let the ghost of you go, but yogurt won’t ransom my heart back from Brennen. 

Ours is not a solution of bullets or gasoline.  We cannot be fixed with a quick wit or a fast car, a doctored cell phone and a stockpile of C4.  You’re lying low with fake papers in hand; even if I could catch up to you, I can’t say I’m sorry in any language you might speak.  Call your mother.  Maybe she knows what to do.

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