I am so overwhelmed
with your words and images
that I'm sick.
My stomach turns with imagery
and my blood is ice.
Sternum anvils
and liquid knees.
Mercury stomach acid.

But I don't mean to offend;
this is good.
Your little word worlds
invoke a physical response,
though I don't understand how
they bleed from your head.

Watch and watch the character tick
like he is counting the flying minutes
that trick me and have tricked me
for six years of forever.
I only saw one man
that knew my minutes were tangible
but now maybe two.
They didn't buzz me like I thought.

And words don't belong
because you've used them all
to paint portraits
of "What?"
and "How?"
And "Oh my God!"
And I'd be damned
if I disturbed them.

Tears trace the lines
that will grace
my face in a few tiny decades.
Can you please tell me why?
And how?
And Oh my God.