I think I just need an excuse
to love you, to be near
you, to be wanted by
you in a primal sort of way.
I’m sitting on the train &
I’m trying to be cool
but my throbbing heart’s
giving me away.

by any other name

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.

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let it pulse

I have two fingers under the pulse
and it moves me like I move it
and it loves me when
I move it.

I can’t stop the fluttery feeling,
the ache that’s almost not-quite:
though I’m feeling way too hot
I let it pulse.

And when that heart-attack
thunder of God comes out of that mouth
I revere just as so—
it comes out in a flow
let it pulse.

So I let it pulse.

Conversation is hard, but conversation is easy.

Language is thrust upon us from the moment we come tearing out of our mothers, and follows us until we die. So it would seem that talking, discourse, conversation, should be as easy as breathing. In some cases it is. In some cases it isn’t. But few people actually know how to converse well.

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