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To My Poet

I am a cursive body

running laps on your notepad

telling you the story

of how we first met.

I am the best type of tickle --

a spark that lights your spirit,

warmth -- like the sound of good morning.

I will be bittersweet -- the first bite

of a fresh peach, the color green,

stars dripping -- Apogee.

I’ve heard my words can make you weak.

I speak because your thoughts shriek --

bullet holes decorate the page, your brain

wants more, and we both know

this gets messy, but we both feel it --

something raw is ripening inside your mind.

Together -- we are open

to interpretation, acclamation,

coughed up confessions

that have us convinced

certain emotions don’t exist --

language may sway, wobble,

and even pulsate, but language

alone will never explain the way

you create me. I feel

Wild and alive and fuck

I feel good. Write me --

passion like this

has never felt so rewarding.

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