i.
I feel like my legs have been stamped
and sent around the globe -
perhaps one flew to Austria to hear
the string quartet that stole my heart,
and the other walked to Amsterdam in
hopes of finding the soul I sold,
now stored on a shelf in a mason jar.
ii.
There is no metaphor,
only mileage -
a life lived long enough to realize
that love speaks louder than language,
and all an artist can do is strive to
describe the strangled kiss with
hit and miss letters,
myself no exception.
iii.
I remember tearing a photograph in two
and trying to stitch a half of each of
our faces together - forcing them to fit.
When I looked upon the product, the monster
I'd created, my legs began to shake.
