"Oh Charles, Oh dear friend... what shall I do? She is somewhere far and I can't reach her hand. I can't tell her with my mouth the things I need to say. Only though letters- through ink and paper can I say anything at all. And I'm no good with words, Charles! Why, I- I'm only an animal, a dog who will lick you and look at you with those full moon eyes to tell you that it loves you, and, and I can't take it anymore, Charles. I miss her. Oh I shall go mad if this continues!"

"I thought the wait would make you king, Laurence? What's changed?"

"..."

"Why don't you tell her?"
"Tell her. Tell her what?"
"Tell her the way you feel."
"My dear Charles. It... it isn't yet time. I've barely spoken a word to her. She’d think me truly mad then!— if I were to tell her about my childish yearning.
She's been ill, you know. Away, being taken care of by those blessed enough to know her. And me, I'm nothing to her yet; I am ******, too young and dry still, without the waters of her baptism. Oh if only she were near..."

"You'd fumble about and tip the tub with all its water, you would!"
"Oh hush..! At least then she'd see me. In all my fumbling and stuttering, Charles. She would see me."

"That she would, dear friend. That she would."

God, I’ve turned stupid with the thought of you.
Look at me- desperate for something that, if it were even possible, would happen only in a future so far I cannot even see it with my telescope. I write without thinking. I think euphorically about nothing. I lie. I give too much of myself to an audience that doesn’t know me. I beg, I breathe hard, I stop myself. Truly, truly, I’ve become stupid. I don’t even have a telescope.

Angel, you’ve got me crawlin’, beggin’.
Throw me your crumbs, I’m a dog at your feet.
And I’ll howl when you leave, that sweet song o’ lone.

And she doesn’t know it.
She doesn’t know it.

But when you talk, I listen for the lick o’ your lips, the pause when you swallow.
And it’s so good, baby; the wait to know you, the wait to show you, the marks I’d love to leave you.
I’ll sit n’ wait. Sit n’ wait.
Sit, lie down, roll over.
When you walked away, you pulled my chain too.
When you walk away, you pull my heart with you.

Woof, baby. I’m nothin’ but the dog at your doorstep.
Drenched and hungry. Say somethin’ for me.
N’ my ears’ll perk up, and you’ll see my tail wag.
This dog’s got tooth, but honey, his heart’s trained for you.

You’ve got me crawlin’.
And when you leave, I’ll howl to you, that sweet song o’ lone.
Because she doesn’t know it, but she’s got me with hearts in my eyes,
and tongue lolling out my mouth.
All I am’s just dog, beggin’,

and I’d never known that trick before you.



-

“I’ve only seen her, Charles. Like a shooting star, I’ve only seen her. But I’d be a king amongst kings to subject myself to that arduous task— of knowing her, and letting her know me. So that we could, some day, and only if she too desires me, arrive at the gates of love.”

“And what about doing that would make you a king, Laurence?”

“Oh don’t you know, Charles? The wait to reach her is as golden as any king’s riches,”

And here, he turns to look at him and smiling, baring teeth and pride, tells his dear friend,

“and would make me twice richer.”





.

You strip me bare,
crawl under my skin,
and worm into my brain.
In a blink you’re mine,
I’m yours.
In a blink you’re gone,
I’m yours,
still.

5pm.
He was holding my favorite flowers, Asters,
Yellow for happiness, Red for faith, Orange for love.
His hazel eyes were shining,
His smile came slowly.
He was the person I knew by heart,
The one person I’d been made for.

We stood there for a few more precious moments.
Everything was passing, yet eternal.

Is this real?
Infatuation.

2018.05.16
Uun B.

becoming the subject of a muse,
merely an object as the muse.
i see the discomfort that comes from
having your story told for you,
displayed without your consent.

i am the director of my own life.
i wrote you out of my script,
so leave your idealized version of me
out of yours.

the unsettlement i feel
to be spoken of so highly,
with a glaze of gold outlying my skin,
stuck to a pedestal.

i am not your trophy,
i will never be your wife!
your version of me
projected through the eyes of obsession.
infatuation.
did you see me as your possession?

and so here it lies.
here lies the irony of making you a muse,
to preach my uttermost desire
to be shed as yours.