Sweet darling. You are not who I
who did not think you would hurt me are.
Is there hope for us?
Angel discontented, sweep I that love you
into the dust under your cosmos, and feel
everything or if it please you nothing.
I am not an angel but that you are an angel
as such that I am, but I am not.
I feel you most
over the steady fade of our unisonal drumbeat.
Lover, can I live after you? You stay no more ethereal
than the fog without me.
You are a dreamscape in the heart of my corpse
and a flower in the spine of my child
and love to me now.
I am not without you.
Am I to love you who in me speaks a melancholy song
and whittles wood into little shapes unnatural—
you who in twilight speak in silence
and in the morning hush my only sunrise
under the guise of love?
Lover. You wound me in the ways of spaces
between the tiles of the backdrop and the rotting wood
constituting an infrastructure.
I am not who consigns to love you.
Painted lovely, a paper dress could not suit you better;
therefore let me go.
Make me feel better about myself, okay. Don't be mean.