I’m not going to write a novel.
This shouldn’t take that long.
Rather, I’m going to write with intense expression of feeling,
with distinctive style and rhythm.
It’s safer this way;
I know you won’t read this.
You’re too honest and hardened to incriminate yourself with
reading my poetry.
So I’ll shamelessly spit it out and say
I have this need to squeeze these passioned feelings
into measured spoons
of linguistic karma sutras,
till the page is soaked
with sweat stained confessions,
and my internal syntax
is spent to exhaustion.
Then, I’ll sleep.
Because in this present insomnia
I can’t find a scalpel precise enough,
or an actual cautery hot enough,
or a whisky strong enough,
to deaden what you have quickened
with wrestled promises
and countless nights of
whispered sogni d’oro’s
So, I will wait in the dark,
under my sheets,
with dry skin,
until my heart voluntarily
gives up on you.