I love what I cannot have.
Your mouth, the sky in your mouth, that expansive far-off regime.
I am sullied by the prospect of it,
the groves within it, the poison lattice it contains.

This is reading wrong.
I love with tangents:
Yeah that piece is really great and wow you look so beautiful today let me place this piece of hair behind your ear you’re so radiant and ethereal and otherworldly you must be from some other world you said you were from where? Michigan? Are you sure about that surely people from Michigan are not this magnificent looking but yes yes yes yes yes yes yes what was it we were discussing just a second ago a second ago the piece yes of course the art on the wall

I love desperately, in defiance of rationality.
Language debilitates me. It leaves me open-mouthed and crazed. I love through touch instead.
Mouth shut, sky closed.

I love touch. Felted limbs, limbs that are felted a soft mauve, Limbs that jangle and give out.
Limbs that entangle and get sweaty and separate, apologetically.
I am so sorry to love you.

I am so sorry to burden you with this mess,
this jingle of pathetic remarks:
I love you, love you I, you I love.
It is my cacophonous performance of hopelessness and hope. You I love.

I love your bold thighs, I want to hold them.
I am too embarrassed to ask.
I love feeling embarrassed around you, the rush of something new, something illegal,

something that is not really illegal but feels illegal and probably should be illegal.

This is, of course, a confession.
Nothing is the same beyond this point.
I am both the criminal and the prison guard. I am descending into
my hibernated form.

It was worth it, to love
is to love Love is to I love Love and Love you.

Please write me.
No one does.
Call maybe,
I love to hear your voice.

The cold timbre,
in every syllable, every little ounce of sound, the small suggestion that you are not here, not ever, will never,
you are far, you are sailing,
and you will not call home.