christian has her hair long
her face plain without
lip of makeup, and her
brief mouth is without rose;

  (i know)

i'm unsure why
the lips nothing
and hair plainly
with longness

seems feverishly something to have.

(wants i wonder which
within your hips are softly sleeping;
it needs to fill the itch–
their strictness always keeping)      .

"I guess–I don't know–underneath it all I'm just a romantic. I've loved (I will always love), and I suppose when I'm dead someday that will only be what's left: some vague echo of a moment I shared with someone. But really, and truthfully, I loved them in that moment.

And I will live, who knows how long, but I will live and I will carry in my heart those moments. The tasting and touching of those moments. I will hold them in my heart, and in my own way, I will always love them. Each one. Each moment and tongue.

It is sad and it is wonderful–that I got to have any of them at all, and that I got to have none of them. But that's probably on me–I'm not always the best person.  

I don't know, I guess I'll just keep trying. But please know I loved them. All of them, in their own way.

I'm sorry for who I am. I'm sorry if I ****** up. I just wanted to be happy. I just wanted to taste someone's skin and live.

Maybe tomorrow I'll die. Who knows.

Anyway, I love you. Goodnight."

this thing is very pretty.
it does not say much,
its cheeks are pale over
and beneath blossomed with crimson.

it has 2 light eyes
of greeness which
move softly over the nose
and lips–2 florid strips of pinking.

its hair is spun of evening sunlight,
red hushed and riven with ray.

this thing is rare
and beautiful
and lovely beyond lovely.

this thing is a girl,
she says
her name.

her eyes move softly,
and her cheeks shine as blood with snow.

few things have ever been so perfect,
few things have ever been so girl.

.







































                                "A
          lot of the time I feel like I'm
               in love with someone
                    I've never met
                                  .
                                  "











































.

i believe in a story

               (it is my love)

the passing of my hands through light,
the coming of slight graces,
the bended stocks of mute flowers.

my love
you are without skin,
your eyes do not see,
your lips do not kiss.

my love
i love you–

         (and where

are you?

my love you
are the whole neatness
wishing within me

to feel the slight pressing
of heat beneath your skin;

the pulsed flexing of your vein
and hem. my love you are

the small darkness
and tiny quiet of my
heart to fill you kissing;

the crimped weakness of your knees,
the playing of your eyes after nightfall,
the winking fleetness of your cheeks.)

And, my love
are you

  where ?

(i can feel you)

even with space
between breathing
and heat between us;     my love

i can feel your someday lips
within my lips the
waxing of your palm
within my palm.

my love
(and i have always loved you)
will believe
in the story

of your hands and lips:

the passing of my hands through light,
the coming of slight graces,
the bended stocks of mute flowers.

.








































"I'm sorry."

I love you.

(I'm sorry.)

"Goodbye."











































.

(there is always this moment)


quietly . littlely

    soft within

bed and thinking
of lips eyes hair
breathing
still and strenuously

pressed beneath breast         .


the heart feels
and pushes against
rib and spine;

(a fan plays
        /
the cat eats)

and lingers little sleep,
for thought is always
and always of thoughts

there is something
somewhere
difficultly serene

improbable to touch
yet touches with
exacting grace;

My dear:

       My love
           of nothing
                Little which


you are
not real
your hand is a vapor

of tense reeling to tingle
under skin which rushes
with clovered spice
of splintered health.

(my love i have always loved you
that you are not something real;