An itch, the blooming of an invisible swell.
Rebel veins.
To ask alphabets, patience-
nothing but mutiny.
Better then sit down gather it all
zero in on where it all began
that’s where those words are begging
to be shepherded to,
this waterhole
in the middle of nowhere of myself
the heart of whatever pain that carried
them to the edge until
they had to let go.
There it is:
To know for certain the possibility
of never finding perfect love.
