hello again, old friend. today
i found myself spinning metaphors
grasping and grasping for your love
which you gave, heedless of fair warning.
my hurt is plasma and platelets
spilling and dropping and crashing
and silent, too. i ache for things i will never understand.
the swift hit of pointer, pinky, thumb and ring
words running down a page
in lieu of other things, messier things, things
i will not let myself do more of. the time
for that is over and i am left
pulling at your shirt sleeves, your breasts, your cheeks
for a look that is only mine. there are very
few people with looks
that are only mine.
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