Humph. Presently heady with dry erase marker fumes, i veer oblique. Thinking of you, my subtle and slowly unfolding and sometimes violent romance. Together/no/no longer/together/always. A secret addiction--not necessarily the loved one, but -ing. Hidden photographs and never-mailed thick letters. Typewritten pages of never-felt-this-way angst, buried under to-do lists and books. Felt-tip scratchings on condemned walls. Sucked-in breath. Stomach-felt jitters, even now.

You say I'm vague; I've been accused of equivocation. An equivocator--not at all a Terminator, the terminator of relationships is not my calling; I long too well. My muscles are flexed through word, behind veils; elsewhere, I've read somewhere, veiled women would carry out their affairs and schemes this way: who knew who you were, when familiar curves swelled secret.

I tell you it often enough, and sometimes I think, yes, repeated often, it--this unruly thing--might never shape itself fully; instead, lie stunted, stunned, -ed.

...

Ha. e.e. cummings, I'm not. Suspicious, I'm not a poet love-branded--at least, not openly.

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