In the gurgling aftermath, like water coming to a boil, emotions steaming off (do they not beautifully call it catharsis, that old man Aristotle?), you leave me no choice but to leave my trace upon your grounds. A convoluted trace that could be read either way. A whispering trace of yes I was here and this is who I am, a trace that leads you back to me.

Is it because I desire your coming or I desire your poetry?

I cannot tell. The act of writing, the moment itself, consumes my rationality. Writing takes no prisoners. Even as I try to stem that onslaught of the first line, which I rearranged into

my ache, complete deconstruction
a break, of a soul Love loves not

even as I realise the Name-of-the-Father and the Name-of-the-Father realises me in turn, the mirror which tells me I exists within and ceases to exist without, no existence should be thrusted upon another, no stranger upon another stranger. Covet not thy words, my conscience warns. But

the onslaught of poetry, yields a Self hidden from the Name-of-the-Father, attracts/ me to the light/ In a state of fugue/ to stalk flame’s heart


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