Zen and the Art of Breaking

i teeter here
on the verybrink of
this page;
my throat
choked with a possible
mouthful of
yesses/yeses/yes's

i can't even
spell it right.

beautiful, you are.
a sweet trajectory of
agony and battle.
and i
wish i could lick
your rough edges,
wish i

had a tongue,

a face
to feel your hair
on my face,
brushing
across a cheek
in the dark.

you remind me of
everything like
nothing in my favorite
poets.
you are

a favorite.

i am
too meagre, incapable
to express
the effect of your awestriking,
so i bright i

could hardly see.

the weight of your body
seems effortless to a
steady set of hands.
i can trace
it all

with my pen.

i picture
my snowflakes
in your hair, settling
gorgeous, ornamental,

an alluring contrast but

too transient,
filigreed

not
what you need.