poetry. i am not writing it.(make way for me please)it is my skin. dripping with light.

i writebecauseit is the only wayi can reach you.

the intensityin your eyesburns my penas i write.

Poems can getsleepless tooand becomethe loneliest thingin the universe.

This winter, there will be no voices, no glimpses, no arms.only the fabric of poetry, to keep me warm.

Poetry has saved me on occasions when people couldn't.

I write because there are things in me that cannot die.

You askif I will write a poemI could,I supposewrite the mostsplendiferousone of allbut notrightnownot whenyour handsare brewingwarmcinnamon teaacross my skinnot when I’mtrying to imaginewhat might happenif you beganfloweringkissesuponmeMy dear,how canI writea poemwhen I’m alreadyinside one?

There is somethingmystically sadand beautifulabouthowi will neversee youagainbut meet youagain and againin poetry.