Why can’t these lines liberate or conflagrate, remonstrate or set me straight like like they had in the midnight hour That may never have happened?
I saw you in a dream, with no torso upon your legs and I cried myself awake unable to remember what you said minutes after the doctors ascertained all those swollen lumps had spread.
Like a pen could sort the difference, pin my quiet words, or even listen to the high-speed pileup of a listless mind: pull my teeth and ask me one more time What has more power than insistence?
Because your hair had once insisted that even a dive can hold a rhythm, and every follicle leapt from your head, lying “We are the makers of our decisions.”