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.