RATTLED NO. 2
My friends were are right.
It really isn’t healthy for me
to be in love with you.
I never see you on a regular basis
like a TV show that airs once a week,
with three year hiatuses
my heart pumps way too fast:
The two halves of my heart
are having rough sex
and I can hear them behind thin paper walls;
my elastic thoughts—
skull: cracking like a thin frozen lake
below Canadian moose, choreographing
river dance routine—
mad thoughts are bullets using their shoulders
to splinter breaking doors.
Eyes eject from sockets, pupils dilate like telescopes,
just to find you
asleep,
your cheeks squeezed
between your pillow and the rest of your face,
softly,
peacefully.
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