i hope my words are strange and wondrous,

like kisses that quiet all things superfluous,

so that we can all stop and

listen

because it is what has always been done.

the question is,

whether or not what i have to say is of any real importance.

the question is,

will it be buried deep into the sands of time just like i will be.

the question is,

why me? 

so the question is less about the words now, so it seems

and everything about the space i inhabit

and the words that will map out my existence

and render it 

permanent,

if to nobody else,

at least to me.

i have lived.

i am here, i exist.

i be, and be coming.

yes. 

hemingway says "bleed"
but i think
i think i breathe.

no these fingers,
these fingers they paint me
to me, for me.
and in the perfect act of self-love,
i kiss me and love

or self-destruct.