I need to know if I should write the white law upon paper unstained by human hands.
I need to know how much I’m worth.
I need to know why we pay for love.
I need to know how to make more money.
Beyond the law and besides myself there is nothing but a stretch of long white pages.
I could be the one. I could be priceless.
I could love myself less and less. But for you who reads every letter of every word, even misspelled. Even unkind. But for you who empties your pages on me. I would be speechless. Unable to see the white light. Spread before me, the poetry. The stories of sadness. Long gray journeys of the two who must become one. Sunlight on my body of burden. Nothing but sleepless dreams of your voice. How I want to say everything, how I have nothing left to say. The sound of breathing makes me nervous. The sound of hearts make me afraid. Love after love I have emptied you into something besides this poem. I speak of laws and final things as an act of purpose, who would lead the way. Because I am lost, all alone on this endless page of what could be. I tempt, I seduce and I wait. I play whoever I must to capture your heart by my own. Out of fear of deep sorrow, I do not know. I don’t want to know how this ends. I don’t want to see where you’ll go. When I’m gone who will erase me as beautifully as you? White silken, hypnotic enchantment. The sounds of God being called are all around you. I am simply attempting to summon the muse, tip the chalice. Ink on paper. “Defile me the pure vessel who could be anything.” I say this secretly inside every word. But I must, pretend I am chaste to the letter of the word. To the law I pretend to obey. Only for you. As this game. Why we cry because we mourn what we cannot see. Who we find between us, this page. The vessel of perfection where stories of victorious gods are written. Where true undying love reigns supreme. Over me the sky falls and I listen for you in the light however obscured. I listen for your breath mingled with mine and then I write about how I might own you. One day. “Sanctify me in the blood of white sound.” I write. But really I whisper with no words at all,
“kiss me where I’m hurt.”