I want you close like when
you turn up the volume louder and louder until
you cringe but
it’s not enough so you press the headphones deeper until
you hurt but
it’s still not enough because you just want it inside you
inside your head
inside your heart
in your belly in your hands in your feet
I want to see you like
when you read a book all about someone’s life and
they seemed to know
just what to do at every turn I know I don’t
but it doesn’t matter
because isn’t it wonderful that someone lived loved
if they’re gone now
that doesn’t matter
because I will watch you peel potatoes put on socks blink and
I don’t know much but
we will hold hands when the sun explodes
I want to feel you like
a painting when you look at the woman’s face
and the colors and the lines
and the soft palet ridges
they mix and blur and you can’t touch it because
the sign says
and because you can’t
it was another time another place
maybe the artist
made love with the model
every dust-filtered afternoon, but he was bothered
he couldn’t paint the little lines in her eyes
just right I’ve tried
to draw you your eyes your eyes
but I couldn’t get it right.
(A revision of this prose poem).
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