Between the lines
Is an Ocean
Of Blank Space

Space for

Interpretation.

Get (Be) META

Or not.

Your decision-
You are well come
To my (Im)precision

Divergence
Leads to-
Convergence.
James Funke
Told me
I was going to hate him.
I don’t hate you, long arms.
After I read those poems of yours
I cannot- willnot
Believe you wrote them
To drive me away.
Did you really write them?

There is no metaphor
For you.

You lie. And you don't.
You love. And you won't.

You're lost. And you're not.
You're generous.
You're merciless.

You spy. You rage.
And then you're so tender
it feels like home.

I dream about
A you of the future.

That will tell me everything.
That will need my everything.
That I'm ready to give my everything to.

I just want to know him.
I ache with the want.

You now doesn't trust that ache.

You now thinks I am
What you've known.

I'm saying goodbye to you now.

I never
believed
in monsters

Until
some
almost
got me

Now
I am
scared
but
utterly
unafraid

Dawn has come.
That bad blood
Having boiled
And changed its make up

Permanently.

His Hatred was an ironic gift:
Though love is as far as its ever been
The journey there
guarantees no base use.
No more abuse.

Only worthiness,
each for the other.

Hope is a long country road
under bare feet.

Selfhood:
Strange burden
to be trapped
in perceptions

All the heavier
When alone.

Expectation wraps
her bony hand
around my heart

And squeezes tighter
With every failure.

Overheard critiques
build bad blood

My battered bravery
turns green
and spoils.

Persistence is as twinned as the judge.
Is it necessary for resolution?
Is it self abuse?

Hope is a shattered plate
Sharply paralyzing bare feet.