He and I

aren't publicized yet-

I haven't written a word

(I just keep it all inside

like

the heat

I burn

with)

He took me

within

the moan

of morning

-it was still sunup when we drove-

(endlessly?)

It is love

now,

when he holds my hand

I could

write

a million

poems

about his shattered

breath

when we

pull over

to the side of the road.

We rage inside of each other

(all these things that we shouldn't do)

(all these things that we have no right to do.)

I don't want to publicize us

dear-

you

and I,

did I spy

the fact

that

this

is defiantly

a perplexing

situation.

I think

that I was most alive

in the seconds before my death-

like three days before the accident

when Robbie

told me to remember forever

that he loved me once

but like before I walked away-

I think

when my heart stopped beating

(before they brought me back)

my rhythm

started repeating

inside

my head

(I remember the blue sky

mingling with the clouds.)

I don't want to publicize

this ache

inside of me

this waiting

for you,

in that little room over looking the freeway

and the lights

in the pool

at 11:00 o'clock

night time

burns

alive

against us;

flesh

fleeing

finality

(we really can't be dong this)

Love

like this

isn't healthy

for he

and I

but we carry on

drowning

against

what we felt

in that room.

I don't want to publishes

my love poems for him-

the intensity brings me to tears

and I feel it

fall

raw

against me;

(I took his body

like a bullet

between my thighs.)

Some people wait their whole lives to feel love like that.

Is sex love?

Or is love sexless?

I think

either way

I like my position beside him.

Whatever contexts

conformity lies in

he and I

don't live there.