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her poem, in which she refutes my love
(‘wait, wait!’ she says. but the thunder roars, & the sea
makes its wrath upon crushing waters, & he cannot hear…)
I take from you what I can.
we are so far from the mythical beach that we walked upon,
under the villainous rain that drenched our simple clothes,
until they became merely vapors that seared our skin.
did I touch you then, did you hold me?
I poet to drag out the wayward mercenary that broods drunk in my
gut, let him drift in lurid details, dance to sad songs on broken
records. expose him to public humiliation or rebuttal or, in the
eyes of the rare woman who wants to embrace him because he’s
so f*cking ‘vulnerable,’ to love or something like it.
I made the fire that beguiles in the nearness of your own: the fire
that burns in your heart. & I brought you all things unholy.
these threnodies you compose. these elegies to love; love as
you perceive it. would you have me in silence & tears?
I have no tongue then. no soliloquy of tears.
I know you. I know you’ve always wanted a hero to slay the beasts
that still torment you. but who would rush into the dragon’s den?
who, but a knight…
(Art: John Waterhouse)
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