there is a faultline that runs from you to me. i’ve taken it upon myself to be a detective, an exploring nuisance, my index finger dragging through the darkness of the earth to map out a path to you. if you’ve ever listened to the mid-morning birds you know what i mean. i’d dedicate my life to wandering if i could, make sure all roads led to you. one foot is one step & i’m trading secrets with other travellers, hoping wisdom can be transferred in a handshake or whisper.

there is an intense desire that forces in me a type of unwinding; your wonderful laughing & musical eyes inspire cliche. calling out cliche doesn’t excuse it, but there’s something about being disgustingly in love that seems to turn the whole world forgivable. when i’m not trawling through sugar-coarse soil, i spend obscene amounts of time with one hand over my stomach, one hand over my chest, trying desperately to separate or soothe the vibrations that threaten to turn me completely electric. you could use me to power your computer, your little singing toothbrush, your stack of unopened mail. if there’s one justice in my life it might involve turning my useless fingers into something productive.

if your body is a vessel i’m amorphous, a formless sludge around your contained-ness. nothing is as pathetic or trying as someone attempting to do a completed action. have you ever thought about the space between the page & the poem ? most nights, i dream of being that impossible, & that lovely.