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Ars Poetica

Circa 2015

To My Poet,

I am a cursive body running laps on your notepad telling you the story of how we first met.

I am the best type of tickle — a spark that lights your spirit, warmth — like the sound of good morning. I will be bittersweet — the first bite of a fresh peach, the color green, stars dripping — Apogee.

I’ve heard my words can make you weak. I speak because your thoughts shriek — bullet holes decorate the page, your brain wants more, and we both know this gets messy, but we both feel it — something raw is ripening inside your mind.

Together — we are open to interpretation, acclamation, coughed up confessions that have us convinced certain emotions don’t exist — language may sway, wobble, and even pulsate, but language alone will never explain the way you create me. I feel

Wild and alive and fuck I feel good. Write me — passion like this has never felt so rewarding.

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