Poem #37

I wanna be adored

My posting dates have been all messed up lately, but September comes petulant each year and I must oblige to his whims, enticer that he is. For what it’s worth I must warn you that this is not a love poem, its worth stands behind a mirror.

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Dreams come with songs on their tails,
comets whose trails fade in the night.

Your face is not with me anymore, but
your hand still burns my insides while

something stirs in the dream, that loathing
part of me you tossed away and I took in,

and the dark comes alive just before I
wake up screaming at you, you are not

yourself anymore, I have made you—that
I know. How am I to love you I do not.
	

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