Postscript

Sporadically traumatic
this web we leave
sticky sheets

a nervous security blankets us
keeps us warm & fuzzy

sirens dividing our attention

limitlessly timid
these teeth we sink
so tepid

a truthful trepidation sanctions us
leaves us warned & lovey

mirrors interfering with our perception

hollow
hollowed out
these eyes
proclaiming to see
so swell

I would be happy
happy to meet you halfway
in the median
on the beaten path
to hell

banging my head
to the rhythm of your
beating heart
because
because I want to be inside
breathing
your intimate most thoughts
scarab-ing around your dreams
wired
not to your desires
no, to your inhibitions
a prisoner to your
metabolic rage

your voice
your voice it sings
a rueful folk rendition
sawing through my harp’s strings

remember
this letter
sincerely signed
your needle-tip pen pal
p.s. there is no fucking postscript

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