Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago,
ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific
without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories,
but not histrionics

fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished,
powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a,
age
and yet
renews as of,

at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not
for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom
they even  now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of
If not now, When?

Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking

But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:

Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the

outrageous misfortune

of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** ****, these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago  
freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity.

Enough whining:
I wrote those poems to
eject out those pains,
and I write this now, once more,
to realize that so so many still face
uncertain and unrelenting similarities,
doing their own sums,
and I wish them easing,
strength to compose and
thereby dispose of
the ineloquent
and eloquent
words of staining suffering

3:30am
Thur
July 10
2025

poets in love don’t fall gently,
they crash like waves,
leave bruises in the softest places,
and call it poetry.

poets in love write instead of speak.
they send verses like lifelines,
hoping the other will read between
the heartbreak and the hope.

poets in love leave and return,
like seasons, like storms.
you still make it feel like a love story,
even when the ending feels close.

poets in love know too much, feel too much,
and somehow, still stay.
maybe it’s foolish. maybe it’s fate.
maybe it’s just us.

I hardly think about you
Except when the music plays
And I realize that no one else
In the whole wide world
Knows the lyrics
But us...

I did not bloom for you.

I wasn’t planted with hope of a hand like yours

to pluck what I became.



I was here.

Growing in a quiet grove,

on the edge of the unseen—

roots tangled in silence,

leaves turned to a sun I thought only I could feel.



You came like weather.

Not loud,

but felt.

A shift in the light.

A question in the wind.



I didn’t call to you.

But still,

you found me.



I watched you stumble in—

mouth stained from strange fruits,

eyes glazed from sweetness that lied.

And I knew you were not lost.

You were done.



Done with wandering.

Done with feasting on ache.

Done with mistaking hunger for worth.



You looked at me like I was something

you’d dreamed once and forgotten.

Like tasting me

woke up something ancient in you.



And it did in me, too.



Because I didn’t know I was waiting—

not for you,

but for recognition.

For a mouth that didn’t devour,

but asked.

For hands that didn’t harvest,

but listened.



And when you bit into me,

you didn’t praise.

You closed your eyes

and let silence say it.



That was the moment.



No music.

No miracle.



Just two beings

who didn’t know they were searching

until they stopped.



Now here we are.



Still.

Rooted.

Fed.



Not written in the stars—

but grown in the dirt,

together.