When You Wept It Was Just Over

I Don't Have General Views About Anything, Except Social Injustice.

I Meet You. I Remember You. Who Are You? You’re Destroying Me. You’re Good For Me. How Could I Know This City Was Tailor-made For Love? How Could I Know You Fit My Body Like A Glove? I Like You. How Unlikely. I Like You. How Slow All Of A Sudden. How Sweet. You Cannot Know. You’re Destroying Me. You’re Good For Me. You’re Destroying Me. You’re Good For Me. I Have Time. Please, Devour Me. Deform Me To The Point Of Ugliness. Why Not You? Why Not You In This City And In This Night, So Like Other Cities And Other Nights You Can Hardly Tell The Difference? I Beg Of You.

The Solitude Of Writing Is A Solitude Without Which Writing Could Not Be Produced, Or Would Crumble, Drained Bloodless By The Search For Something Else To Write.

I've Known You For Years. Everyone Says You Were Beautiful When You Were Young, But I Want To Tell You I Think You're More Beautiful Now Than Then. Rather Than Your Face As A Young Woman, I Prefer Your Face As It Is Now. Ravaged.

The Words Emerge From Her Body Without Her Realizing It, As If She Were Being Visited By The Memory Of A Language Long Forsaken.