Is it weird to have fallen for words that breathe and leap off the page
like harsh poetry in the middle of a sun-dappled afternoon
where the smell of death competes with the grasping pull
of sex reminding the breathless that air is superfluous
and the gluttonous that food is in plenty
enough to have you choked on it
unable to swallow and destined
to consume for the rest of
your insipid life
all the while hoping
that you could see me
through the looking
Maybe it is.
Just had to put it out there and hope that perhaps you read it.
To Frankie Leone