often it seems that i have been at war
with the platoons of feathered romances
i have known.
the strategies of love ellude me
as i'm always being flanked
by the hearts of my collecting.
& i have turned,
ever so slightly,
into the coldness of my insurgents
for it is difficult
to have known death
so many times
& to have not somewhat become it.
if, in the end,
i will only be left
with the landscapes of my words
to haunt me.
or if somewhere,
there is some unarmed ghost of an era
who can hear the words,
"i love you"