Some of my thoughts feel like an arranged marriage— yeah,
I never really signed up for that. But that’s the signature of it,
where they only love to leave their mark.
Where gospel gets mixed with gossip— Matthew, Luke, John,
and Mark, not in the right order, so much like the words in my
thoughts.
And not everyone takes a word of advice well, when the language
sounds foreign to their ears. I talk to myself in tongues of fear,
translating silence into sermons no one hears.
Doomed to hope— a hopeful romantic still searching for
a stranger’s thirst to share in; two dry hearts, small talk and static.
How intimate, how sensuous, the touch of mastering fingers
with no questions left unanswered— or maybe no answers left
to questions. Being that direct: an arrow for a heart,
a bow pulled taut by friction. It takes pressure to apply
the brakes, but lately, it’s the breaks that pull me apart.
The peril of possession is the thrill of it, divided by whatever
title we’re giving it— _situationship, relationship, companionship_—
each one feels like a subscription that’s bound to expire.
And marriage in my head is split in two,
Like every vow I never quite meant.
Perhaps this was never a poem on love— just a confession from
a man whose thoughts and feelings still have commitment issues.
Oct 17, 2025
Oct 17, 2025 at 2:29 AM UTC
Some of my thoughts feel like an arranged marriage— yeah,
I never really signed up for that. But that’s the signature of it,
where they only love to leave their mark.
Where gospel gets mixed with gossip— Matthew, Luke, John,
and Mark, not in the right order, so much like the words in my
thoughts.
And not everyone takes a word of advice well, when the language
sounds foreign to their ears. I talk to myself in tongues of fear,
translating silence into sermons no one hears.
Doomed to hope— a hopeful romantic still searching for
a stranger’s thirst to share in; two dry hearts, small talk and static.
How intimate, how sensuous, the touch of mastering fingers
with no questions left unanswered— or maybe no answers left
to questions. Being that direct: an arrow for a heart,
a bow pulled taut by friction. It takes pressure to apply
the brakes, but lately, it’s the breaks that pull me apart.
The peril of possession is the thrill of it, divided by whatever
title we’re giving it— _situationship, relationship, companionship_—
each one feels like a subscription that’s bound to expire.
And marriage in my head is split in two,
Like every vow I never quite meant.
Perhaps this was never a poem on love— just a confession from
a man whose thoughts and feelings still have commitment issues.
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