The
long history of propositions as if a clear lake
Rippled
with the languid tremors of loneliness
I
am talking about the color of your lipstick
The
time we happened to be happily reminiscing
I
am talking about drawing stick figures in sand
I
guided you into hell but I couldn’t guide you back
I
can’t think of one interesting thing we ever said
That
anyone else has a right to overhear fuck them
Who
says we owe a debt to the weight of amiable air
Heavy
as a water-logged poem, as a soggy sponge?
But
didn’t we stay to count perhaps even to avoid
All
the things we ever heard together, all those voices
We
stole like bouquets from the farmer’s market?
And
didn’t we sing we want to be wanted regardless?
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