Moments after I heard from you,
the need to write down all
the images in my head dissipated.
But what images they are,
and what justice would be done to feeling
if I’m to believe in a moment’s assuage
when they say that sadness can be the opus
upon which greatness grows and
discomfort teaches us all the things
we haven’t mastered yet–
(like) how the greatest of lessons can lie
in learning how to run in stillness?
So I write to alleviate the tug to my heart,
caught in the reign of multiple chains
attached to you
who tightens the pull
like a Chinese finger trap.
Every time you run away,
I can hear every vessel scream:
“we’ve got a runner!”
It must be you…
Yet my knees are far too weak.
So I quit smoking because I couldn’t stop thinking (of)
the day you asked me if I was smoking,
out of the blue,
kind of like you knew
one of us would have to choose life over death,
and it wasn’t going to be you.
So I quit smoking to compensate for my weak knees-
to cough up the strength to tell you, my weakness
to ease the tug that suffocates me
every time you flee,
for every runner needs a chaser
and baby, you tagged me it.