Really old, like 2007 or maybe late 2006

(When my blog is fixed, there is going to be a section where I just write about people I dated/pseudo-dated/made out with once, etc. Roughly 30% of it will be sexual, so I wouldn't get too excited. I actually have had sex in my life. Sometimes I forget that fact. Ps- Now I think "categoric" isn't actually a word. Oh well.)

So many things I wasn't
and that I could be
until I held your kind heart, broken
in my hands.

The languid emotion that is me, was me
clumsy and crushing like child's boots
unfit for tender things
and I wept at its exquisite quietness.

Such wonderful softness
and with such perfect simplicity
the something made one soul
one life, one set of hands
and with such stoic vulnerable freedom
it does move about.

My lover
has no gender, no age
no categoric physical description anymore.
Only spirit and city
kind words and idle feet
loving me but gone.

My favorite little life
you are no longer drawn towards familiar things.
No comfort found in bedsheet-pants,
no solace for the weary in mine arms.

We are moving and market and tall buildings and the sea.
We are ourselves!
A picture perfect circle rather than a wandering puzzle piece.
You cried too, but you were glad
and I was let down at the realization
sometimes all I really want to feel is love,
you said.

Frantic spinning contradictions in a mass of man-made lights.
The ones in the sky look about the same from far away,
and offer no more in the way of an answer.

And so I leave, my friend, unfinished
my soulmate is soulmates exist
but if they don't then I am paper,
fold me up and tuck me away, please
in your box with funeral love.

In the way that you tucked me once,
close into bedsheets,
saying my, my, mine, my.