Talking to you

Talking to you is like talking to air…I wonder if the clutter it takes for me to ache ever reaches your ear.

Do you hear?

Do you hear?

Talking to you is paper bag brown and vulgar.

Lusting exits, slumber begins…the death of bed.

Talking with me is no better.

If the words fall sour and the tumbler sticks due to lack of lubricated intimacy, click tracked to conversation of space and time, the sound of foot prints fading, I must hear…clank, clunk.

 Ravage me damn it!

Take it in and give it back out in the shout of your quiver.

Talking to you could be nothing, or everything. If I would stop to listen.

If you would drop in to listen.

If you would

Talk

to

You

   More.

One thought on “Talking to you

  1. Lusting exits, slumber begins…the death of bed.

    I know this in me; in my past…it’s so sad. At least as what I envision from your writing.

    while many say that the point of writing is to convey an idea appropriatly: I think it is to invoke something of themselves, even iof we dont understand what your saying.
    So from what I take, I wish you blurry visioned conversation among pillows that leave you wondering what is reality and what is fiction….

    I wish you the beautiful grace and fear of the Vajrayana sight that is groundless and wonderous.
    Sleep not easy: but in wonderous dust open-hearted lady

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