The problem is I love you
with that hunk of me which is
unfinished,
that perfect romantic steak dinner
which is perpetually
still cooking,
with a will that is always
changing and never
was mine to begin with
and lives high up
in the master bedroom of a
dwelling place that is temporary,
a shit apartment, adequate for
a scrawny underfed spirit,
a small body that doesn't physically exist;
no limbs, no tongue
with which to speak
or lick, to taste the dream of air
that floats between the words we say
and those we no longer
say to each other—and
this thing, this stinted love,
this phantom child of us,
I can only guess
must be: so holy, so miraculous
that it still exists, even though it was
never born—at least not yet.
