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 the pounding on the door or those who’ve come to collect me?

I’m afraid I’ve lost any sense,

Slipped between the cracks like loose change.

And tell me do you consider this all to be carefully contrived?

I’m afraid I’ve written myself out of existence

Carefully constructing each line around the heart of the matter.

Regardless, can you hear it?

Please tell me what I mean.