Your laugh.
The big one.
The loud one.
The "I'm at home laugh."

Not the quiet, public laugh;
the polite titter for
dinner with aquantances.

I want the big throated, down deep laugh.

I want your breathless whispers against my neck.

I want one of those hugs you give me when you mean it. The desperate embrace.

I want minutes. All of them... to soak up the seconds as the thirsty are nourished by dewdrops.

I will love all of the sadness and uncertainy  and anxiety.
These are minutes too.
I wish I'd been better, sooner.

I've loved you so much for so long it feels like all of the love that ever was
Over the course
Of forever.

I love you so much that I wish I had a unique word.
A language singularity
that was only for you.
A word that I didn't have to share with shampoo commercials and free lunches and other people.

I (_) you with all my heart. Know that. On this, the fakest of all holidays,
Tha one that you hate the most,
Please know that I ( ) you.

with this pen in
my hand
and your warm fingers
filling the
spaces between mine,
I swear
upon the stars
that we
will never die.

I'm trembling, terrified;
that you'll look down sweetly
into my dark eyes
and hit a dead end.

Try to paint imagining. What does that look like?
Maybe use a thinner brush or none at all.
Wear Birkenstocks with white socks.
Helpful? If not, look for details of masochism.
Listen for the fractal music. Hear its nots.
Those are swirls that were your eyes. Blink!
Try playing dinosaurs at a local **** store.
Chug a quivering quart of whiskey as primer.
Focus on penetrating the dance of ******.
No? Then imagine your imagination imagining.
Or, just give up and buy a copy of Cheese For Dummies.
Kick back and enjoy a gnawing evening off.

Eat, sleep, breathe, excrete,
a body living does not a life make.
Oh! Black dog do not my heart devour.
Only the lonely know only the lonely.
Know thing not without touch lives.
Do you smell that smell? Do not inhale.
Kick hard to keep the burly beast at bay.
Or cross the bar onto wine-dark depths,
Song of sirens. Whispers of doom.
How soothing simply to sink. Down.
Sometimes, the brain may prefer the drain.
Make the judgementally ill be still.
In my mania is my maintenance.
The abyss remains to revisit always.
Difficult balance: live or cease pain.
To resist. To defy. All that does remain.
Good morning, blues, how do you do?
To keep it or to give it away.
Bump. Bump. Down the funny steps.
Bear up. Hold on. Call that another day,
though sand through the glass’ neck still drips.