Epicene

When coy words ended, and lines filled with symbol ended,
I spoke as I had never intended.
Be here--that is what all these charge accounts
And bookcases are for--
I want to write you. I want to write for you.
Not in fragrant dances through dreamy fields,
But in the musty smell of your hair,
I want to nestle after long sleep.
I want to drool for you
Instead of imagining whom I might drool for.
Be here--unmistakably here.
I am tired of the one who might leave
Or might never leave--
Institutionalizing the vows we never made
With a strike of ill confinement
That rattles our fleeting aspirations.
Be here--my street is protecting your window,
And I am only a ghost without you