Saturday, October 8, 2011

I cannot love. This heart is a forest

and I don't need flowers

or insensitivity, like a cold rock thrown in an ice blue sleep. I don't need words
of praise or peace

or hands to build a house amidst my leaves; i am a blowing thing
of rampant insecurities and dashing,
thriving beasts; I don't need lips
to touch sweetly, nor a trail blazed, nor fellow tree to spend dark evenings

amidst the howling, hushing brush; I ache already
in the moist morning
where your feet have trampled
such delicacies.


Maybe I am dreaming of what love is supposed to be.

You cannot fill me, as no one can

for a creature's heart is empty. And I

am not that vase or glass, not fine

enough to fill myself with sand;

What is as hollow

as your cupped hands?

Love is small, and five fingers can hold nothing.

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