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.

alone’n you.

but i don’t wanna be with you—
i wanna be alone with you.
i wanna sit opposite your pretty face

and talk to you about music—
about art, books, the media,
about life and death and literature—

and all the stupid shit in between:
like family, school, our general health or
why we never fell in love the way we wanted to.

kids (or not) and coffee dates.
i wanna talk to you about the last fruit that you ate.
i dunno, i don’t just wanna be with you

i wanna be alone with you.

double trouble

they wear the same type of clothes
and the same type of cologne,
and I need them both like
my tender heart needs to be left alone

when they get up close,
not a single tear in sight—
I need them more than I can say:
like butterflies to light.

sans sarcasm

the tongue
is in the mouth
around the flesh

the air
is chilling skin
and pulling breath

and the bones
are dripping sin
onto the bed

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