I still suck at watching Buffy,
but I think about you every goddamn day and
I named my guitar after you but
maybe it hurts to hold
and I love you and that is all
for the moment.
I wish you to utter the most joyous fucking leaves imaginable.
I stole that last line from a fanfic but the words are true and
I want
to only say true things to you except when
I want
to bleed you beautiful fantasies in case that might make them real.
I think
no words are wasted on you because you
lay words to waste with your voice and your art
the way you move through spacetime,
a bloody astronomical anomaly.
I saw Anomalisa with our poet and
we cried in our proximal seats but
I couldn’t attend to the plot because the images and
sometimes that is how I felt just being around you but
your bike is in my shed and then-
my sense of time is tearing at the edges between my toes and in the corners of my eyes-
where I want you to see crow’s feet one day
please share in a private mess with me
again and I will feather down the stairs to
sit beside you on concrete steps
shivering silent in an alternate ‘verse
where we are both content,
the way my plaid shirt is content-
on the arm of a couch
thrown over a book that I stopped
reading when you walked
into the closet doorway of my
cringing spirit and whispered:
“hello,”
Evolving Exactness 