People still ask me about you as if you were a standard operating procedure.
People still don't get it.
People still say; it's better to have loved and lost
than to have--
What people don't seem to understand is that I don't dig epilogues,
I don't speak with punctuation, I don't end with period. and I don't capitalize.
I'll sleep with a pillow softer than your self-consciousness
and even though I don't speak in redundancies, allow me to repeat myself
'cause I know you're not takin' notes
'cause you're the type of person who likes to hang on a moment
and own it
but do me just one favor
in this minute minute, please
that you've got too many easels
and not enough paint
and self-expression is moot if the canvas is blank.
I'll sleep on my good side
so that tomorrow when people ask me about you as if I have a degree in your ology
at least i'll look well-rested when I tell them
that I used to cry when i wrote you letters
and how I used to write for you
and how in my head I STILL paint renaissance paintings of you
and how they hang in this cranium like a sixteenth century mausoleum
because genius is driven by affection
and affection knows
that we were born with more voices than our mouths could house
and so some of them got swallowed.
But genius -- genius knows nothing.
Genius knows that we do things with our mouths sometimes,
like when we kiss or cough or collaborate.
Thus genius is driven by affection
and affection made you my muse.
So please listen to the words of a man who knows where his voice has been;
if you were made of construction paper
and a few shades red-er
I'd glue love to you
l-o-v-e, spelled out in pasta pieces,
sprinkled in the glitter of hugs and kisses,
I'd hold you lovingly in my hands and give you--
to somebody else.