what does it feel like to be held
not by another body
not by a set of limbs, a chest, a chin
but
by another soul

what does it feel like
to see truth in another pair of eyes
instead of hidden intentions
instead of absence

what does it feel like
to hear a familiar heartbeat
resounding next to your own
reaching through skin
through bone
two rhythms
indistinguishable

what does it feel like
to write poems about
a love that exists

From the saddest part of my heart,
I try to write the saddest words.
Words filled with deserted dreams,
Words that will expunge me.

But, will it make the souls quiver?
Will it sting the sternest heart?
Peel my tempestuous mind,
And turn it into a delicate art.

After I write, in the tears filled night.
Will it soak up, all the sorrows of life?
With the eyes of pity, and fear-filled skin,
Will you cry as I bleed with the ink?

If it can do none, then seal the hands that write.
Beyond this promise me to never unrecalled my words,
And call me the traveler who dreamt of the saddest poem.

You expected a girl,
your own notion of femininity.
You expected me to laugh, to talk,
but only in bubbles,
Wonka’s fizzy lifting drink.
You expected to float
on my wiles
I’d heft you up while you cruise.
Well, you get nothing.
You lose.
Good day, sir.