I love you, but not in the way that poets mention.
It’s a love with mostly beautiful parts—
those which beautiful words
could do their best to validate and describe.

But there are other parts,
like
the hot, jealous breath on my neck,
heavy and hanging over me—
a howling black cloud
patiently waiting to
rip,
pour,
warp,
and
ruin.

Other parts,
like
the craggy barbed wire ribs you wear—
the ones I take in when I wrap myself around you.
Who these are meant to protect
remains unclear.

Other parts,
like
the guilt I foster when we touch
while you remind me in a soft whisper
that you’re not mine to keep.
I face the bare wall and hesitate to accept
that to touch is simply to use,
and to use is so far from to love.

I love you, just not in the way that poets mention—
in that rigid crack between the brick and mortar—
in a narrow place where even the loudest secrets dare not echo.
I love you in that stretch of light between heel and shadow—
in the space that implies
but does not define
connection.

I love you, but not in a way that poets mention.
I love you in the silent incomplete—
the only way you’ll allow.

I love you alone.

you are a stampede in the hollow parts of my bones,
a chance to open the chambers of my heart. quite literally.
my plans for this body are to be wrapped around the intensities of yours.
keep you still.
I look into a velvet mix and hope someone’s there.
instead I hear God yell, who made me?
the bruises you left on my shoulders tell
the story of an orange tree stuck in the wrong garden
but still persisting it is at home.
you are the exothermic reactions happening in my veins.
hardly do you notice them shimmer.
I smoke the left over cigarettes
found between my nails.
they exhale your name when the air is cold
and frost becomes my sole companion.
you walked away when I gave you my hand
and all you felt were tears drip from my pores.
a sponge used to dry my eyes.
is this what it’s like to be in love?
hardly do you notice them shimmer.