what's another way of telling a crowd that your hands fitted with mine, in music
that I couldn't soak love as I maybe don't have the mastery to
that you knew me better than what I could remember of all these years I lived
you could listen to my slab notes and see the soothe in cursives
without me even turning on my caps lock, I could just think half until you ask me to stop aiming to clarify everything
'over-explaining, using a lot of receptacles in texts is a result of trauma'
groomed me? didn't infer that hyper-independence is the upshot of the same laceration?
and because I'm a poet, I think I could see a lot of things, a lot of effort
(that didn't even exist)
the poetry month is on the verge of ending and I can see it even more clear
(all that didn't exist)
endings are fascinating and validity is cliché
so I keep writing, even if it's not the notable month
and protect loving you, even if you traded me off for I couldn't just be a corpse
I keep loving you because my fist fitted into your hand and
you could hear the tale of my gusts, all the time, throughout the afterlife
