it’s as if isn’t it poetic that i keep reminding myself of nights with you as if they keep the pulse jumping and skipping? minutes go by, regretting the way i’ve handled such careful things with such careless hands, bruised and uncertain. i’ve always been friendless, straying into homes where the welcome is hesitant and worried the connection we had is hanging on the clotheslines outside letting the air feast on it and if you offer me a world where the status doesn’t define my existence or linger in the ether, i will be satisfied. the things we give in to define us unless we prove otherwise. and isn’t it poetic how i write like you’re dead or washed upon some shoreline, sinking into the sand, feeling the pulse of your hands for one last time? isn’t it pathetic that i think you can hear this, this desperate plea, begging to reach you, but getting caught up in the much more fashionable moment? i’d never dreamed i’d have a husband knitting in boredom, loving in spite of the curses and the lack of courage. isn’t it pathetic that i think about marrying even at a time like this, where you are staring at a moon i can’t seem to fathom? and sometimes, i lose myself in my own weaknesses and let them define me, would you deny me, if i offered you my earn? isn’t it poetic that even in the depths of despair, i still remember who you were and i was confused why such lovely things could happen to the feeble? i might never define what it felt like, just that it was alright, and i feel invincible: guess love does that after all.