Glue

“Please. Not yet,” I whisper as Technicolor reveries dissolve into familiar successions of gray.

- - - - - -

aching, begging that these might

stay,

adhere to me, rather than ricochet off and

away,

from my being, from

my body, from

my soul…

- - - - - -

…but nothing, nothing seems to stick these

days;

infinitives inevitably slip off. Fragile, they

break,

shatter everywhere, be-

come shards too sharp for me

to hold!

- - - - - -

perhaps an epoxy sweet and crimson can

assuage

the sneering, jealous critic that foretold my

fate?

aching, begging that these might af-

fix my anguished heart.

to know…

- - - - - -

“You matter to somebody...my beautiful friend. I genuinely love you."