so I have no problem telling you
why you cried over the third lost
metal or the mousetrap. I knew
that orgasms weren’t your fault
and that feeling of keeping solid
in yourself but wanting an ecstatic
black hole was just bad beauty.
Certain loves were perfect
in the daytime and had every
right to express carnally behind
the copy machine and there are
no hard feelings for the boozy
sodomy and sorry XX daisy chain,
whenever it felt right for you.
And when the moment of soft
levitation with erasing hands
made you feel dirty, like
the main person to think up love
in the first place, I knew that.
It’s okay, you’re an innocent
with the brilliance of an animal
stuffing yourself sick on a kill.
Don’t, don’t feel like the runt alien
on my ship: I get you. I know
the dimensions of your wishing
and losing and don’t think you
a glutton with petty beefs. But
even I, who know your triggers,
your emblematic sacs of sad fury,
I understand why the farthest fat trees
sliver down with your disappointment
and why the big sense of the world,
wrong before you, shrugs but
somewhere grasps your spinning,
stunning, alone. But you have me.