how long i had your bandcamp open before and after you told me you deleted it is how much i love you.
how anguished i felt when i finally reloaded it and it wasn’t there anymore
how i try my best to rest your synapse fires,
how i keep your correspondances in one place so i
can read them over and over,
is how much i love you perhaps.
keep my gestures, please.
fold my fingers into your chest cavity,
fateful place where glass broken
pieces of a crackle vase,
woodchips from a brittle cork tree,
fluttering paper bits,
the aftermath of another lover, to whom
you may be naught but glass wood and
paper bits anyway.
when we try to settle this over telephone,
i keep these things in mind:
the notes, the love letters,
the joshua trees buzzing,
the poets who know what we’re going through,
who tried to solve our problem;
to me you are not a broken crackle vase.
to me you are not butterfly paper.
to me, i think, you are how much i love you
although i think maybe you’re a little more than that, too.