I own the defeat in me.
I fight the war in me.
I am my own adversary.
However,
I am still...
The petrichor that permeates
your words,
even if I can't read them.
I am still
the way it was.
I am a burning thing
inside us,
and us all.
what do I know better
than these walls?
The ones I have crawled,
created myself in red coal mornings
in New York and elsewhere.
Jill says 'Loneliness is its own continent'
and I agree,
even if you aren't alone.
better than required,
unrequited love...
I'm grateful for my poems,
my lonesomeness as much as happiness
however nascent, boiling under skin and dreams,
because it begs me to be my own spiraling,
thundering, waking, sleeping, living, dying adversary.