In a minute I experience the colour red..

Like writing our names and a heart
in spilt coffee..

I don't love you.

I do not know about "love."

With vomits of never,
and forever is a made up word.

I certainly "love" my cigarettes..
but I can't seem to view you as one of them.

I surely "love" my music,
but even you escape the limits of it's soul breathing.

No.. I do not love you.

You are a clean mirror,
with lips as wounds,
and a sharp tongue
that knocks me down at times.

Shiny and beautiful,
but that's not why I do not love you.

I do not love you because I picture you in the morning,
in a perfect state,
devoid of responsibility,
with a faint splash of sunlight across your chest,
etched up into your neck
as if god were Monet.

I do not love you because of the art you possess
when lifting your shirt over your head.

I do not love you because you're entirely too brilliant for your own good..

and i'm merely an idiot lover,
clitoris image,
of a woman
that leaves the last bite of my dessert untouched..

for elegance's sake.


Difficult as morning,
but damnit,
bless my little cotton socks
for supporting me as i tip toe to you.

Tip toe
in a stretch of sixty seconds..
to hear your voice and say
"hey you...
I just called to say hi."

my heart is:
a poverty stricken ghetto.
a bed that's never been slept in.
a rose never picked.

"i won't keep you,
I dreamed you were a poem..
I just wanted to say I [don't]love you."

my heart is
an insect
struggling with the last flutter of my wing
breathing my last gasp of stale air


pinned.
to.
a.
specimen.
board.

except in that minute.
that minute before the world begins again.

This is you.

This is i.

This means I love you.

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