I wrote you a novel once,
though, I haven’t read it.
‘n I chant your name endlessly,
infinite dirges in the dark,
but, I don’t have the meanin’.
when I was little,
I would thumb my dad’s Rosary,
starin’ up at our lone steel Crucifix.
‘n those same curves come to mind–
your skin to mine.
I do not love you.
I don’t know why.
