it's a funny thing, really.
you are I
and i am i:

you have bound yourself to such an immense
fantastic thing, while i keep myself
down to the i: incomplete, unhuman.

i would not go as far as to say that i
am a man, but perhaps a transition, or
perhaps a boy with an early case of facial hair.

i remember that Autumn well:
you seemed well standing alone,
yet i was waiting for you to crush me

with each of your powerful words.
however, crushing does carry nearly as much of a shock
as melting.

i would love to be wrapped in your blankets,
but somehow (especially today)
your arms seem so much better.

                  to be one with you; but, my love,
two bodies become one and two breaths
become one in our little games; one is more than two.

now on your tercet:
you are o-so tricky in your poems!
look at what you have left me:

no end-stop, how cruel!
how can i even attempt to ponder
what you were pondering there?

spacing? poetic, yes,
but this poet tried to keep it all left-alligned
for our sake, but if you want

to play that game,
i'll suit up.
and, if you recall, i wrote poems

in response to your poems
long ago;
it's just that this time i am trying

to re-melt you;
whereas before i was simply trying
to get you to say my name out loud.

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