I’ve been here before,
and, not only that,
I’ve tired of being here before.
You can be sure
that my judgment has led me
to leave this place before,
if I have to.
You’re clever with the way that you touch me
and make my thighs tingle with words.
Your footing on the doorstep to this feeling
lets me know that you don’t waste your verve.
It’s not that I’d call you “professional,”
and I don’t see your moves as rehearsed;
it’s just that I trust what I’m sensing:
that something about you just works.
“Play around with me, then.”
I’m asking you to,
And the reason I’d call this thing playing
is cause simple is fun when its true.
how you have made me pure again.
So, fuck the fucking scorecard.
Games like this, they don’t get me too bored.
Ignorance – feigned.
Perceived – bliss.
screams, like a night-car,
lust for ears.
Like a fallen tree,
be back inside,
Oh, the words I could not muster:
“You hurt me,
so I came at you
the birds have not stopped singing;
someone shut the window, though.
the sunlight did not die;
you closed your eyes instead.
that envelope, unopened,
was not yours ever to close.
that heartbeat sound you hear
is not your lover’s breath.
I am trying.
I think that’s what I do;
I try to try,
and some days I
“̶I̶ ̶f̶e̶e̶l̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶l̶o̶n̶e̶l̶y̶,̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶d̶i̶e̶,̶”̶
s̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶a̶i̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶p̶e̶b̶b̶l̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶p̶i̶n̶n̶e̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶k̶y̶,̶
a̶s̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶t̶c̶h̶e̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶f̶l̶y̶f̶l̶y̶f̶l̶y̶ ̶a̶w̶a̶y̶.̶
“Ay! No more,”
“of this astigmatic mind.”
and all awry
and worse than seeing with The Eye.
but minds like lies.
Close each door the right way.
Maybe, some, with a broken hinge.
Maybe, some, with a gentle fling.
If each stays open,
ajar and upwind,
then all the frames will fall
like flying numbers.
There are days that I have been elsewhere than here.
There are roads unlike my own on which I’ve walked.
There is fact: the fact of this.
There is, too, fact: the fact of that.
What’s to say I’m not the one
they form a globular procession on the floor.
They all march forth.
Some deserve to be there,
some not at all.
They all hold plastic hands,
and all the droplets bounce.
Some come together,
some feel left out.
Some look like glass,
and they pass a luscious chalice around.
All the wet lips sip;
they take a liquid hit.
Their bouncing turns to dancing
and the place is FUCKING LIT.
“This is it!
Wet and happy!
So, why for you cries,
Just get bit wet.”
That’s what my tears did. That’s what my tears said.