Love Letters

An Ode: to my favorite composition form (rare bird): the Gut Runneth Over

The Love Letter


A father's son becomes her mother's daughter. When
that happens, so does love. So does an earring. So
does a ringing. So does she expel lists, so stops being
"therefore" and is just just. She could be less honest.
She could tell less but who ever falls out of love. She
could jest, she could bless her past and anoint the future
with hope for the rest. But she is her father's son and
a mother's song. She explains things with longer toes
and lovelier bows. An aesthete, she mourns for her
past and the past of present lovers. And anoint? With
hope no, with lovelier bows, with longer toes. The
woman is a rose is a rose is a rose.

To the love a witness both to your sorrowful tears and tremendous orgasm:



To the love far away, in the arms of another, alone, with pitiful company, dead or alive:



To the love abandoned by the misfortunes of mental health, misunderstanding, and money:



To the love who plays your body like a violin, but your mind is just like a drum machine:



To the eternal platonic love of longing and semi-consequential loss: 



To the love that looked better on screen than in writing:



To All of your lovers: a word.