because maybe it's me:

i am not making enough sense, i am all
emotions?
it makes me strong, it makes me sing,
it makes me all words and no play,
all pain and gigantic leaps of faith.

i am too silent, i am not questioning
or understanding,
i am not even trying.

and what are you used to?
something quiet, something convalescing.
something once upon a time.

but i am learning how to
stave off the desperation,
how to pull it all together
into one concluding thought:

i am granite,
with a sandstone heart.
and you wear, and you wear, and you wear on me,
an erosion of time and space,
and the thought begins to grow:

i am wasted
and wrecked, an expansive mess to be cleaned
by antibacterial disinfectant.
i am a sweet, sticky mess,
something left behind after sex.

and if it's me,
am i not becoming clearer each day?
i am transparent, blank.

if clarity is your value, you can meet me another day
on the ocean floor:
we can lie, backs on cold sand,
and watch the typhoons rage above us.