too windy to sprint
still
enough to write
inside the comfort and quiet here
still
so recently reshaped
or so it feels
new
in a first time sharing a sleeping bag
sort of way
too tired to sing
still
enough to think
inside the brawn and peace here
still
so recently reshaped
or so it feels
fresh
in a storm outside an oversized tent
sort of way
what happens now save every voicemail not that his tone would have been forgotten but to hear him call me tweety as many times as
the magic of a fresh cut i am literally lighter though not by much my shoulders have less to lug my neck has less to
write some poems that i can give him ok (but they’ll all be about the hims) good idea bad idea no good twinning and losing
peering through thick glass your back to me is waiting any news at all? running down broad steps into your brotherly arms crying without breath!
is it the ticking of the third hand or the faucet dripping onto discount bulk blueberries both measuring time “going in circles” as he would
you are your own though your temperament reminds me of him your head is more ripe mango while his was more soft plum my love
