Fever, or, When the Heart Guides the Pen

[Apparently this is what happens when I stay up too late/ get dehydrated/ want to avoid philosophy papers. It's not supposed to sound as sexual as it does; I was just writing it in a really hot room. I also lost my iPod shortly after I wrote this... an even trade? Pretty sure this won't make sense to anyone but me.]

Where are you, my blond apparition, my "standoffish" angel? It's a quarter past midnight, and you never came. I'm here, stretched out in a hot primordial haze, barely able to move, wondering where I might hunt salvation. If only you were here, I'd have to look no further than your mild face, your limp. Would you ever guess-- the things I would give you if you were here. My forehead burns and burns but doesn't burn out. Somewhere you sit with your mild face turned dutifully toward a book; in my mind I call you to me. It's happened so fast-- already I want to know every detail, on into infinity, not just your tongue and your mouth but deeper; I want to see the inside of you, every black cavity and every unthinking cell. I want to know what thoughts an angel thinks, why angels are aloof; I want to know everything that's made you, all of it, back and back to your childhood.

Friday

If there’s a god in heaven

or anywhere else

please bring me my poet

please send him to me