Poems are not for you.
You are a poem,
Writing yourself one sentence at a time,
Or one word,
Or the next plausible conclusion.
Perhaps you are the comma,
The pretension of a halt,
That submerges in the need to go on,
and go on,
and go on,
Or a full stop.
A full stop, self sufficient, and self explanatory.
Perhaps a bit unpoetic.
But what’s a poem without a rhythm break?
Are you a question mark?
An exclamation!
You exclaim sometimes,
Your breasts nodding in imperfect unison,
And i feed my unhealthy obsession with your naked flesh.
Perhaps you are a semi colon;
Introspection in black strokes.
Or you are just an introduction
In mistaken tenderness,
Colonized in dots and bad puns.
Perhaps you are just that:
A colon.
But you never begin and never end,
And all i see is the refrain in you,
Repeating in variations over an age of sorrow,
And chance,
And love,
And mourning,
And mornings smelling of stale whiskey.
And once i wake, i know the refrain has changed,
Or i did.
But it still smells like a lullaby.
You are a poem,
Or perhaps not.
But it never mattered.

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