The moment of
utopia
Where ragged breath is
  broken
And for a second,
gravity consumes the both of us

Sometimes I talk about you like you're away on a trip and you're coming back.
Throwing you into casual conversations as if the people I was conversing with felt everything you make me feel.
Pretending they understand the depths of my heart
and how deep you've fallen into it.

But not even I understand the intensity that is you.

Like gravity you pull me back and hold me down.
Trapping me in an illusion of a story never told and never to be told
but forever read in my head.
A never ending dialogue between love and loss, let go and hold on.

A love story.

A tragically beautiful love story.

'If a writer falls
in love with you
You can never die'
Even if this were true
I will **** you tonight
I will **** you tomorrow
Until I run out of ink
I will **** you
In each and every one
Of my rhyme-less poems
I will write
Of your death
In my blood
When my quill is dry
So when I die
You die with me
And you are dead
Even in immortality

I am a nervous poet; sleep with my pen under my pillow.
All my sheets are white. And that's despite the fact that

I sleep with all my verbs on.

I've had friends that were good who were poets that are dead,
And the poem always got them in their sleep.

I rhyme with one eye open. I give birth in my sleep like a bear
To cubs that have left their crap on the notepad in the morning.

All over it; like letters from one poet to another -a thankful thing
Since poets say nice things nicer than non-poets; and even insult with

Slightly more finesse.

But it always gets you in the end, the poem. It gets you with the
Caps Lock, and you can see the Head of the Title, and then...

I'm a nervous poet; sleep with my pen under my pillow.
I traded it for a *****.

I'll dig with it.

I read his sentence as
a string of his breath,
the commas,
his pauses,
and at the period
is where
he ends.