we only said words that meant anything

at the retreat of the tide. really, my mouth

 was always filled with flowers & violets

& you simply did not love me. but that’s neither here

nor there & i am sick from writing

a story that i do not know how to finish. i

want to succumb to the grand piano of all things:

my fear of fear, followed closely by my love

of love. there is a Venn diagram for this somewhere,

where you & i are the Pacific & Atlantic ocean,

where our currents cannot touch, caught

desperately swirling in their own temperature.