COUNTING
almost
doesn’t count,
and
counting your blessings only means,
you
count the curses too,
But
I count…
the
days in between the weeks,
outside
of the months,
until
I get to cleave myself
the
secret,
of
the covert affairs,
listed
inside the classified articles of my lover.
the
articles I tried to stay away from,
the periodicals I tried to tear
my ears away from,
But couldn’t.
So
I counted…
13, 23, 31, 33
Telling
stories my ears won’t be forced to hear,
37,43,53
Counting
memories as dreams bump into my past
and default themselves…
counting the moments for the
meantime,
but between the time where
deaf ears, silence tongues, and
muted vision,
can touch what cannot be
touched,
slowly
undressing the articles of my
lover,
counting them,
one…..
by…..
one…..
