Past joys have left me unable to write,
be it my hands kept busy pleasing the loved object,
constantly smoothing sheets or hair back from high
foreheads, or plainly held at my sides away from
what I once held dear above all else – words and what
they could do for me about you. Which is: everything.
What I mean is that until today I thought all beauty
was indescribable, and love the property of pop music,
and pain the domain in which I was to wander, scribbling.
Still there is nothing in the dictionary about
how you make me feel, and when I look up "desire"
in the thesaurus they still have not described
the way you taste at three in the morning. But to have
you to turn to in the dark of night, and to move against
you in my sleep, the books are all sorely lacking in
where we are with each other, still so far from "goodbye,"
but the difference is that now I try, I try.

I’m back, I think.

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