LOVE LETTERS
These Carnivorous Hearts
Our is only a quest for more
It is possible
to imagine a person un-materialized,
without a confirmed knowledge
of their flesh and bone,
and the way everything is assembled?
It is conceivable, treacherous, agreeable.
So, there will be no turning back,
nor any looking forward to,
no merit, I think,
in attributing this
to pure chance.
Our is only a quest for more.
We will sink, destruct,
rip apart, fuse, combust and,
in the void left by our collapse,
create something new.
We are
the distance through which
these carnivorous hearts find peace,
then part to grieve, to nurture
these wounds we’ll have inflicted
on each other as a loving memory.
There are no curves in my hips or my smile,
yet sometimes both burst into something
miles away from hostile indifference—
something submerged in a force
politely unnamed but gorgeous.
Bear in mind
that what I write may sound like forced rhymes
but it’s mad ripples in my foreign head
chanting the same refrain
in renewed textures.
My love for you is tense, entire—
My love for you
is an automatic weapon
swinging back and forth
like a lullaby.
