The heights that burn brightly, burn high holy in mind, can they lead us to live rightly, find us lovers realized?
No one touches me deeper than I can myself, yet I prevail that there’s someone else. When with open heart, wallet and bed we take in people and bare deepest parts, and still remain strange, separate yet entwined.
Dead alone at some ripe age, pray make sure to cover my grave with mozzarella, amaranths, salame, daisies, sauce and all my imperfect lovers weeping in rivers, and eating a pizza with all the wrong toppings.
Might I learn Love in whist, from back over all my false starts, could it teach me to be happy, to stand by for a time?