Pluto

I have seen it said that a love poem should start slow. I will tear back your skin with my teeth. . . That it should build like moss on sparsely traveled stairs. Clean away the crimson spill with my tongue. . . Like a gentle slope, leading to the mountains peak. And when you are clean, I will count you ribs. . . Like a symphony, with careful, measured pace, ending in a grand crescendo. I will scour them for all their imperfections, all their scars. . . From there, it should fall away as a gently, bubbling brook. I will learn, I will memorize the patterns of your bones. . . It should leave the reader awestruck and out of breath. I will paint them in prose, fill my mind with their image, with your image. . . But poetry is all about breaking rules, looking at the carefully established traditions and patterns of those who came before. . . I will know you better than anyone else, better than I know myself, I will know you completely, I will carve my name in your marrow. . . And ignoring all of it. And then?

つぼみにはもう戻れない

Happy Halloween 🎃

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