We’re quick to make a contract with our brands,
constructing private collages from ads in magazines.
We eat out of their calculating hands,
they feed the young and old and all the hungry in-betweens.
That sacred combination which we seek,
the promise of completion by some fabled missing piece.
It circles us and whispers till we’re weak,
surrendering ourselves is such a mischievous release.
But once it’s in our hand, it starts to lose,
that quality of congruence which drew us in before,
which groomed us till we felt we had to choose,
that old new thing we loved last week, but don’t love any more.