My mind has a motor response:
“it used to come more easily”
and I can’t put my finger on
what exactly “it” was-
Is this how it is? Adulthood?
A matrix of memories and a muted
(Damn it. Fuck that.)
Give me my hot headed yearning back
(if it means I get my love back) To be loved!
And beyond a sad and slavish mess,
To be loved as a broken angel. To be loved as though the loving were
a race. Love.
And the word becomes stuck in my throat, oily and overused:
When I wouldn’t have the word “God” anymore, when I
tried to peg the heavens with a name of my own,
Well I settled on “lamplight”
(the first sight, in which
I learned to see divinity
looking out the bedroom window) And so
there was a time when the word for love was
nothing more than a growl, a sigh,
a long look at a red light. And now,
love is locked room and god is an old acquaintance.