I haven’t thought about you for a while.
And even now, my feelings have changed.
It’s strange — I don’t think about you
in the same way
but you’re still the muse in my poetry.
What does that mean?
Is picking at old wounds a productive habit?
Or does it produce more chaos and damage?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
All I know is that you’ve got an assonance going on in my head.
The letters of your name don’t quite hit me the same but I still
appreciate the aesthetics of the syllables
that make up your being.
Do you hear that rhythm? It’s fittingly musical,
fittingly fatal, sounds like a heartbeat
either picking up or slowing down
to something wonderful.
My own name in comparison is dissonant, unforgiving,
unyielding. Asymmetrical. Da-dum-da. Dum-dum-da-dum.
It has no flavour, only texture; it forces you
to form the sounds in your mouth and
in your head. I kind of like it.
Sure, to be flowing and lyrical and palatable is quite nice.
But to be fierce and determined doesn’t suck. It makes me
feel stronger than I actually am in times where I’m
weaker than I look.