You could win my heart with peanut butter
or with passion for the never ending quest
of finding the perfect running shoes.

You could win my heart with literature jokes
with Kishi Bashi, Bach, or Bocelli
and if you play with me, I'm yours.

You could win my heart with affection
honesty, cleverness, and candidness,
I'm addicted to non-corporeal human evolution.

But I'd rather you didn't.
Not yet.

Do you weigh 50 milligrams of intimacy
with the pros and cons of an Advil?
Do I NEED one? Pain happens for a reason, right?

Though, it would be nice to forget for an hour.

Until of course, you think about it again.

You were the greatest neuronal reorganization to ever happen,
of course I don't know who I am anymore.

What was plastic seems changed to stone in a gargoyle brain and beneath a microscope the shimmering glia spell out your name over and over in little green lights, fossilizing the neurons that say:

Him.

The earth has an edge. Nobody wants to fall off.

So call me Homer, because the gods themselves could not convince me my situation's a sphere there's far too much fear in this flattened plane that understands only primitive desires and just wants you near.

Everyone knows the romanced brain could be mistaken for a ******* addict's.

But perhaps if you look more closely into my eyes you will see my irises have turned stormy, that cyclones of energy are becoming patterns that scribble and scribble arcane suggestions for a new cartography. A new story. A new being.

Supplies needed:
One strong pencil.
Enough oxytocin to unlearn an addiction.

Enough optimism to overcome an affliction, my diction is code for the way you kissed me and it underlines every sentence like the way a voice rises when asking a question.

I have so many questions.

And even though the notion of who I will be when I am not you terrifies me, like Cathy and Heathcliff I will not be doomed to roam the moors, already I know there's endlessly more, and with or without you the best is yet to come. Just as they say. No, I don't know what's in store. But I think that's okay.

Turn golden, Grey Matter, light up 'til you burn.

Reboot.
Restart.
Rewire.

*Relearn.

I would beseech you to say anything
for your mouth is a sacred place
a thin, modest gate where even
your fits of grand or ill humour
are formed into soft, tender shapes.

I know well enough to leave that gate shut
so that no beautiful tempests can billow out, curtain-like
and sweep us off our feet, blowing us so far apart that
I cannot find you again.

And so I sit cross-legged before you,
fists under my chin like a little child.
Listening to your silence
and wondering how you are.

Even in this silence

there is solace.




                                       *I miss you.

in the dark i saw a glow
    t he glow of a billio n
              s o f t       little cells.

and ******>   not yet feel ing any fear,
i became q u i e t-

                               i drew n e a r.  

y o u're so very   w arm.