still on my list,
still in my pages.
your polaroid is still in my car.
poetry sown for you lies yet in my journals.
you are a piece of my life that, like many other things, will remain a mystery of dropped calls/ opportunities/ hopes/ love.
i feel it.
it's like some kind of
death.
maybe
more like a bit of life.
my honey-bee.
you stung me,
please
hope you haven't died yet.
i feel you
like
some kind of tendon that got pulled
[jostled]
the wrong way,
yanked from my sinew like
someone meant to kill me.
are you the bullet, darling?
or are you the gun.
were you the gun, i'd mean never to dispatch you.
were you the bullet, then i'd rather catch you
'tween my teeth and hold you here inside me.
