The selfishness that runs through my blood seeks your gaze because all the poetry that makes me stand straight and show you my feathers are born there.

My mind that wishes to sleep and not exist in the cotton days that it goes mad with the power to write wicked things about the way that your voice released words that had never been heard before in my world. 

is that while the earth rotated around existing and knowing, mine did it through writing and finding. 

So the selfishness that is exhaled and inhaled from my scent doesn’t let go of your memory because it's midnight and its dawn and it’s yesterday and today and never, but something needs to be written 

It could be whatever, and you, like a prisoner of my laments, are always near to quench the thirst that needs a bit more ink. 

And like that, perhaps, with luck I get to rest these wrecked bones. 

Ta.