Writing

hushed murmurs, a squeaking chair

low mmms and ahhhs and snaps

and a poet standing dead center to begin dissection —the act of pulling out an intestine to test the color for ink

I saw a photo

Of you when you still had hair

Brown, nothing

Special, that hair was.

I forgot what you looked like

With hair that didn’t come off when you traded it

For a hat.

Black threads interlaced. 

Buttery seams–

The feel of dreams.

Baggy enough,

enough to be fitted.

Sprawled on the marley floor,

Each pulse of my heart 

tugs a string of my soul,

The pressure on your chest weakens as the craft gradually decelerates to a halt, and you find all the mass has been pulled out of you, leaving only your volume.

art is love and love pushes through.

Tears are cakey. They're extreme. Maybe that's why nobody wants to see them. It feels like you're seeing somebody nude. Can I tell you what I love? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.