for who i for the smell of ball point pen ink
sassafras and meningitis
i didn’t write that
you touched my fingertips to your own
and watched us hover back
the visual and vocal spaces
put you high above me. i stared,
so high so high above me
at the muses mimicked multitudes
when all they wanted was to watch.
god the smell of black ink
underscores the memories of passing
past lives around a coffe table as fictions. &why?
which real is reality or which fiction
when i stare at my pen
the tip of my nose is split in two.
unless i stare where
the two ends fragment off instead;
i would much rather keep my nose, thank you.
in my mind, i became your enabler
and you became my instigator.
making me move from poetry
to prose but by you to poetry.
you said i spoiled you, but you
spoiled me instead.
my rotten heart is perishable without you.
i only hope i haven’t tainted you
with my poison.