Naturally

in this there is no justice, no law. Here
I throw myself against you, oh Wall,
oh Mystery. Who am I to say who you
are?  But I know this: I crave for you
the way plants grow towards the sun.
Yet I cannot see you. I cannot know you.
I have never truly known either.

But here I am: walking towards you,
ever so slowly, my feet moving to
some unknown anthem, sick beat.
A single moment I could convince myself
that I needed nothing else; drooped away,
over-ripe petals pondering,
thorn of a plastic rose. Just
once I made the mistake of looking away
and finding that I have already forgotten –

paraphernalia sets the scene for the
night’s play, the stars prance in the
seas of your eyes, boats in the fog,
the lead who peeks from behind curtains,
my keepsake, some fucked metaphor,
my dream-catcher fever-dream.
I write poems about
you, who does not yet exist – and who may never exist.

Yet
here I am,
forever floating,
engulfed by the fangs of love.

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