post-Christmas Facebook poem about poems in your feed, obviously

Hello my dear sweet angel.

you are you and

I am all the hours of the day .   .   .

weighing on the motion of the

clock.

that painfully slow

wait

for the time when you will finally

apologize.

like

I am echoes in a hallway to

the winter desert

retreat

I am in you

a foxhole, cowering.

I am the nails

in your walls, bent on cement —

my coils of phosphor bronze collections

of the years invested in

creation, hang crooked

I am just a poem here and now

and you

are another beautiful brain

you can think about it

if you like

It would only make sense if you knew what it was about or gave it your own sentimental meaning, siphoned from the proverbial well that is your being, more like a fortress underground, whose hallways are decorated with memories and embarrassing truths, lies…. jokes.

it would make sense if you read with the frantic lunacy of a starving mind, teeth ground to the pretty pink pulp of your gums, swollen with the fevered infection of lust — archaic — for the wild romance that only you could possibly imagine — and still you would cock your head — for it would be you lauding the flowers of the galaxy before your own feet. It would be you the victim of all that it could possibly be to dote upon.

if you only read this far.

or perhaps if you only

were.