Why say a thing.

Why bother when neither knows the words.

Come instead to places of saplings, of sucklings.

Slide, sidle up for more than just one moment.

Let us take one look; examine how close we have come,

Stop. Turn your palms skyward, let them rest.

I did not want your hooks.

I did not want this latch.

I did not want to be so maudlin, so damned.

I did not want your mouth on mine.

I did not touch. I did not take.

I did not want to be so wanted.

All this fucking yearning, all this fucking nothing;

All of this love, all this pure frustration.

All these petals falling. All of this May 8th.