I need

 the force-fed fever or the fury,

the moaning or the excessive worry,

the albatross I drape

along the shapes that the shades leave on my waist

when I’m alone & in sudden need,

some emergency that forces me back under the sheets

in a pretty heavy dysthymic fit of 

missed opportunity.

we choose grapes & mud slurry

over contact every time.

we choose as if we have to:

impenitent thirst or the gentle mercy,

 the lie or the glory,

we say:

my god, how could you! or I’m sorry.

pause when agitated or doubtful

(or sink your mandible heart on them).

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