i keep circling back to u same entries same glances same window a voyeur in the making you pull the curtains wide is that an invite you dress up ur inner world to strip it naked a ritual i return to hungry no matter what delicacy is served i’m onto ur leftovers the drafts u forego and still i want the lines u scrubbed too purple to serve us all i keep circling back to the same old coming second to everything that’s yours hating how easily you belong to writing to intellect to the erotic to humor i have barred myself from owning a thing anymore all— the scribbles, the doodles—yours weak rushed naive all me i uncoil your voice from my throat and go mute we split clean where u say his name something i can never name even after all of you i’m late like always circling back to something already fated if only i had held on braided our umbilical cords into one— perhaps i could be half the writer you are perhaps i could be real