I have inherited
the clumsy heart
of my mother
my muses do not always
know my true feelings
some of them
may never understand –
even after reading this –
even if I am still around,
semi-sane,
still able to explain –
and I would probably
try
without really
trying

My blush is what happens
when my heart cannot
become any more
red
my smile is a result
of my soul jumping
for joy until it has weakened
my core and broken
my surface
my lament is the poem
I cry through a pen
and bleached tree pulp
when my eyes
and voice can cry
no longer
I don't lust
I don't crush
I fall,
I trip,
I tumble,
I die –
even if only for the moment
we are sharing a drink
or a meal or a useless
conversation –
I dissolve.

I breakdown into
my most basic elements,
and for the moment,
become one with
your current as you stream
through life
and I KNOW
you may not feel
the same
I KNOW
you may not want the same
you may not ever
want me swimming
close to you,
and you wouldn't dare
dream of me swimming
inside of you,
but please, always know,
beauty with the rich timbre,
bottomless soul –
I am always peeking
down into you,
always sneaking
a listen or
touch or
sniff and,
of COURSE,
I am
fucking
in
love.

(c) cambridge jenkins iv

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