I Don't Think I Write

What Are Days For? Days Are Where We Live. They Come, They Wake Us Time And Time Over. Theyare To Be Happy In: Where Can We Live But Days?

Only In Books The Flat And Final Happens, Only In Dreams We Meet And Interlock.

On Me Your Voice Falls As They Say Love Should, Like An Enormous Yes.

All The Unhurried Day / Your Mind Lay Open Like A Drawer Of Knives.

The Difficult Part Of Love Is Being Selfish Enough.