creep

And send me every poem you write and every word you wish to write and I will read it all and read it well and know that you send it to me and forgive you and adore you and understand you.

I try to stop thinking of you and then I try not to die of the yearning. I make myself tea and imagine what your hands are doing right now. I water the roses and picture your smile blooming. It is so loud, this naked want. All teeth and ache and embarrassing, embarrassing reckless desire. The animal panic in my chest as I try to convince my heart that it does not need you to beat. The way my traitorous heart laughs in my face as it sings it does, it does, it does.

I had the dream again, the one where I am standing in the mist asking you to love me despite the ruins of both our childhoods. You tell me the story, the one you love, about the two wolves sharing prey after a forest fire and how even in chaos, hunger is the only thing that can be named. We are all seeking what can sate us in the end. But we devoured each other without consideration for what comes after. Your brutality with the truth. My gnawing ache for vengeance. Our ruined childhoods. Our story always had too many fangs. Tell me, is it too late for us to know each other again? And if it is, why do your wounds still howl with the precise cadence as mine? Why does my heart know your heart's yearning like its own heartbeat?

"Angels can fly because they can take themselves lightly. ...Seriousness is not a virtue. It would be a heresy, but a much more sensible heresy, to say that seriousness is a vice. It is really a natural trend or lapse into taking one's self gravely, because it is the easiest thing to do. ...For solemnity flows out of men naturally; but laughter is a leap. It is easy to be heavy: hard to be light. Satan fell by the force of gravity."