I never say, “You’re
wrong!” I call it love. it’s too passive. I should be screaming.
a risk of a tumor. or PTSD. most never
realize affectation, those years, those bites inside.
I loved the affection, her ass, her
breasts, her face—to look with longing, to die with intention, to adore thighs,
legs, ankles, to see what none gather.
I vanish into space. mother points a
finger. they’ll be days surrendering to invisibility. the pictureless man, the
vacuum, nothing dances like sex contact.
psychology is waning, in the moment, reality
is presence; thoughts like bricks, essence like liquids, pain like
satisfaction. so odd, looking at another, asking for more, such raw
disappointment—love was shared.
watching body language. leaving earlier,
arriving later.
so much to adore a good person, with
vandals whispering, to sick a hyena on the bowels of souls.
like mosquito bites, or mesquite, or tacos,
or nachos—laughing with friends, feeling goodness, Love gazing, dazing, lost in
eyes speaking puppetry.
I never say, “You’re wrong!” I call it
love. it’s too passive. I should be screaming.
