I’d weave my hands through your hair,
unless
you can think of something better,
but I
like to approach the tower of your body like a
needle through a thread
and then
lay in surrender along
cloths of regrets we’ve made.
I’d also sharpen my nails
to feel keen across your back
but I
kind of like the blunt circles
I’m drawing on your blades from scratch
that lack
all the clarity, and sincerity
that only carefully pointed words can pack.
I like to think of you as my failed “clair de lune”,
and my foggy “starry night”.
And I’ve just realized
that what’s bad for your heart
is good for your art.
*Originally written April 16, 2014
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