i don’t know how to write a love poem unless the feelings come from someone else

for them i am able to sing the ballads of flat recorded recollections: blue lights and the rainy afternoons or even the smell of the car that i only rode in once (invitation only; so exclusive)

saying it can’t be defined is a cop-out because surely there are pretty enough words to sweep in a haphazard pile to capture the colors and flutters that surround tout mon corps but it’s my skin that feels the most every touch touch touch from skin to skin (verb)s my (noun) like a (vague and pencil-drawn memory) keep touching never stop

i’ve heard that when confronted with a feeling like this it feels infinite and i can attest to that for why choose words to piece together when between our eyes we can recite the alphabet in countless combinations resting only when our mouths

open