“Forgive me. I’m no poet.”
I forgive you your nothing
but the leaning, the puffed up bend and snap of your glorious you.
You ask if it is wrong – to love you too much, to love the crackle of newness, its grandeur.
And it is. It’s all wrong. But the wrongness sits atop an altar
atop a book of hours that swells like dreams for centuries.
You’ll never be mine, so I make you my muse instead. And I’ll expect nothing
in return so long as you stay faithful
to our compulsive mythology.
You the velveteen swan who loves everyone’s flaws but your own.
Solvent and sticky, I touch the pixels of your face and die somewhat in your grace.
My cunt sighs for the insistent persistent treble of you,
but my heart, that dull fruit, is much too stubborn to obey your protestations.
So, my carnal apple girl, let us be wrong, but never sorry.