My heart, in Spades
Aches of unspent never worlds resonate through the buzzing composed of words and thoughts that sound to me like the panting breath of Bukowski's Tiger, echoes back smiles to sobs of all my unspent tears minted in some lost currency
Reflective, only the night is my mirror for I can pretend it's empty as I pretend to be full
hearing Jung speak in tongues of shadows and knowing where finally I've hidden truth in the petals of a Rose
face so beautiful it hurts and my clinched fists bleed down her thorns letting my veins cry for me
I speak to strangers hoping to never know them well enough for deception all the while seeking intimacy
Pangs of longing masquerades loss beneath the fissures of my hops untempered.
The words are my air, to die is to live as I reach for everything I've ever cared about, la petite mort a little taste of death to inoculate me against complacency the vulnerability of truth my balm to savvy self-fulfilling cynicism
caught off guard by my own passionate paradox
refusing to die without truly having lived, refusing to live only for a time to die
love is honesty with another person in mind
and my heart bursts with it
If only I could find the words...
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