Wordle #125 “October 17th, 2016”


My tears are not uniform,
vast as human vocabulary,
they shudder in passage.
I ration them carefully,
always in odd numbers
that you will not think me devious.

I will not apologize for offering
myself, as torchwood, to the forge.
I, who denote nothing,
shall be made to order.
I, who denote everything,
shall invariably be broken.

It is in your terrible image
that I seek lavation,
a love skulking behind
two window-less eyes.
So long as I am alive
I shall want for something
how could it be otherwise?

Your heart burrows
into my hollows, filling me
with pneumatic fits of delirium.
The air hangs at my side
sharp and precise,
millions of invertebrate wings
melting between us.


9 responses to “Wordle #125 “October 17th, 2016”

  1. This reminds me of ‘infatuation’ always wanting to please another and letting the self feel rejection when the whole of one’s imagined devotion is not returned.

    I remember feeling that ‘pneumatic fits of delirium’ when I was in grade school and had a boy I like take me to the office – I can’t even remember the reason. I had been away for a death in the family I think and when the teacher told me to go (perhaps) to the office for something, I told her I hadn’t remembered the way…so she had the ‘boy’ take me there. I had felt like I was walking on air… But we never did ‘date’ and then I moved out of town…

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