.. you write poetry bemoaning your lack of a love life to a mythical person who may not even exist. But still, I quite like this. Not quite poetry, not quite prose.
Love me wordlessly.
Love me with hot moistness under a noisy fan.
Love me so that I am without language, without communicating.
Love me so I am silent.
Love me so I am loud.
Love me at the pit of my belly and the dent of my back.
Love me into knots.
Love me into a straight line, toes unfurled.
Love me with Blake and Eliot and cummings.
Love me especially with cummings.
Love me so that I forget.
Love me so that I remember.
Love me into you, crawled into the space between your lungs, beating.
Love me into smoke, vapours, thin air.
Love me into thick air and fire, so I explode into flames.
(And a little later today, the first (and perhaps the only!) installment of I Can Give People Advice. Stay tuned.)