you—an almost ache, almost wound, almost lover,
almost return to self, almost summer, almost a love letter,
almost it all.
i think, i was spared of you; there is something insidious about you,
i am always left craving your words that carve me on the inside.
you inadvertently teach me the parallels of
grief & love / one cannot exist without the other,
inosculated twins that only know of their own flesh.
i love you in the strangest ways—if permitted, i would colour my blood
in all your hues. i craft an inconspicuous religion in the impreciseness of
your language; your pauses are ornate prayers waiting to be deciphered,
and at the crux of it, your words are memories waiting to embody.
i think, if you were a gentler god
you would not leave me burning on the shores of myself, uncertain
of everything except you.
