And so it goes
I am reaching for a concept to convey what I’ve been meaning to say But it feels out of reach And I say that truthfully Yet underneath it Is the heart of the matter which is — Well somewhere outside of me Edgar Allen Poe’s tell-tale beneath the floorboards calling out to me, The perpetual haunting. But find myself waiting with bated breath - for Gadot. And this is all just a literary workaround to avoid any true sincerity. Leaning on pomp and circumstance to avoid the trap door beneath the podium. And really this is all just to say, I’ve been reaching for a concept Because it’s easier than reaching for any man I’ve ever loved And it’s easier to dress up my words and blame any lack of understanding on just lacking literary reference. This is all just to say, I’m afraid of my notebooks and ghosts pressed into the page even after it’s been ripped away. Even now Even here I can hear the beating of hearts that were once mine beneath the floorboards of each poem I traded Or is it ...