Coma

I stopped writing.

I stopped writing because i couldn't hear you speak anymore 

and everything wasn't worth writing about anymore.

My throat like a dry well under desperate eyes, 

salivated mouths.

I wrote about salivated mouths and false concepts of love.

I tried to make love a funk between my thighs 

 but no matter how many rituals i performed

it still stunk between my thighs.

A fragrance of premature masculinity and false theory.

My womb a well of mystery 

mysteries addictive than any substance, anything bad.

I wrapped myself (my legs) around the possibility of reciprocity

but even respect didn't respect me enough to say thank you,

desire mistaken for respect.

Love me, build me, desire me.

I'll work hard, i'll serve, i'll listen

Just

Don't

Fire

Me.

Even if this love tires me,

I will take my yawns and make a bed out of time.

If I should ever awake from this, coma

while the aroma of loneliness chokes me

and the arms of compromise revoke me

I will wander in the wilderness

crafting nests out of wounds,

raising love out of tombs 

so that i may soar on wings like an eagle.