We are wanting in the dark lights, all hunched,
All live, writing in our book
With a tethered sigh
And wanting a rest, but loving uncontrollably
The pen we move.
Convening and commiserating over past time
And sleep lost, and head fucks, and let downs,
We occasionally admit our fixations
To tumble from our mouths.
But with adolescent stubbornness schooling us to not-love
And not-praise, we produce in our mind’s eye
The wheel, the perpetuity;
Tired and wishing to be elsewhere.
Like dew on grassgreen skin, the world about us drips
Drips until it is swarmed into itself, and imperceptible to the touch.
The myth of elsewhere still offers minute glimpses of flesh
The ankle, the nape, the thumb
Teasing us into believing she will come into view.
Yet in small epiphanies we forget her
And feel the unfamiliar sense
That we do perhaps love
That just because we are wanting
And just because we are tired
Does not mean we need to loathe by reflex;
Rather, it means we need to recover and master our infantile skill
Of sobbing and smiling at the same time
Of loving our world and protesting it.
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