Yesterday, 02:34 AM
Limerence
O Matilda ! the waste
of unrequited love
is the dance of the Deaf
hearing for the first time
and can't stop—for 30 years:
This embarrassment is a hug
of the sun that reminds me of you
in Iceland. A place I've never gone.
Silly girl, I'm an ignorant man,
what I don't know harms me
more than any crime you or I could commit:
More deadly than death, my hand
writes in the shadow of itself.
When you see me, I wake up,
and know beyond knowing that time
is a limerick and space is the rape
of my bones that age and age and age,
rhyming without—that's my poetry—.
I'm alone.
I like my poems to have a subdued musicality that faintly contrasts with blunt and simple statements.
O Matilda ! the waste
of unrequited love
is the dance of the Deaf
hearing for the first time
and can't stop—for 30 years:
This embarrassment is a hug
of the sun that reminds me of you
in Iceland. A place I've never gone.
Silly girl, I'm an ignorant man,
what I don't know harms me
more than any crime you or I could commit:
More deadly than death, my hand
writes in the shadow of itself.
When you see me, I wake up,
and know beyond knowing that time
is a limerick and space is the rape
of my bones that age and age and age,
rhyming without—that's my poetry—.
I'm alone.
I like my poems to have a subdued musicality that faintly contrasts with blunt and simple statements.