We’d never be equals—we wouldn’t
permit that, blame it on egos. I loved, I thought. I wasn’t eager, I believed. Too
much assumption. I read prose, made confused, to see an author taking risks—the
flame we quelch. I wasn’t quenched, the Ghost is fire, majesty in one person:
just right, a right moment, needing distraction, aloof to suggestions, raw
favor, neat addiction. I believed in powers, galloping like a horse, drifting
like a shark, if to adore where nothing makes sense. No one likes prose. No one
likes poetry. Either we love it, or it has no meaning. Either/or—right! I was a
galaxy for emptiness, filled by her joys, since a child, running into monsters—affixed
to faith. Something of a contraction; maybe a paradox; to have seen the worse
in souls—adrift a mistake, encouraged to be patient with the art we pang. I asked—wasn’t
prepared—I hope she truly adores him—as every gem in a person, notwithstanding,
purple sadness, needing existence, proven inconsiderate.
