I'm passion, impassioned,
rocking against the bed
in my head in my mouth.
I am full
and I am weak and I
lost weeks and weeks to you,
toes tapping like you're gone,
like you are ready to run.
I won't notice everything
and I think that is the key:
That is what makes this different for me.

Sometimes I think
that lifespan is like wingspan
only you can't see it
and it doesn't do shit.

In my heart I have wings,
strange and wide
as long as my life.
I think if I did, you would
like me better.
I would have caught
the light
or your eye
and either way you might
have noticed me.
If I had wings, you would
touch them,
gingerly but enthralled.
If you touched me
I would not feel so small.

You are stupendous,
and I am stupid
because I want to
tell you, say:
you could have been
the best thing here,
you could have been
something special.
You are the cat's pajamas and
the core of my heart and
the sleep in my eyes
and the scars on my thighs
and I will not cover
you up, no; I will send you
all of my love; no, I will
fly to you on chimerical wings
because you deserve only
fantastical things.