Loves- older, newer-
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form a cohort,
whisper conjectures to name her love.
Love is ever Strong,
eight months hardly Quick,
and the greatest myth
is that love cannot come again.
Loves come closer, with
Yet, still they puzzle
on their multitude.
Only five times each day, I play like my bed frame
is a tweed lounge seat, my shelf is a welcome desk,
you are my friend by choice, and things are like they used to be-
You here to pay attention like you would have better things to do,
if it weren’t for the fact that I am your best.
Behind closed doors, I mime conversation with transparent friend,
all for imagined your strong, silent type observance.
This poem wasn’t supposed to be embarrassing, but I am
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How does he love you? He counted the ways,
but I don’t know many ways to say
to you, “Love me.”
“…love me, say that you love me…”
Come back to-
Come to me for first of times.
Well, you can stop not loving me now…
Can stop doing all of the things that you do!
Not paying attention, not first tuning in.
To not respond. Not care. Not like.
Never be curious. Never look up.
Not see. Not ask. Not tell. Not try.
Anyone! More, you only ones- I don’t think that this hope will die.
Oh, but I trust that this dream would dim,
if I would rest
and turn out your light.
If the sky is navy and the sun gives off
a lingering bumblebee glow,
when the snow dares to fall but is too shy to stay,
and you start to sense that you’re alone,
with the village distant and you in the desert-
I see how you feel in my soul.
But what do you hear? And what do you cry?
What secrets do you know?
The fists that hit,
The feet that kicked,
The girl that fell,Read More »