yes, I love her

There is a pit inside of her:
deeper than she is

able to. Go. I followed her
half-way down, once. She barely

made it. Out. She can not bear
to hear some of the words. I write

and it would be easier to swallow
were she not in my throat, as I wrote,

but the psychic cord was never cut,
though attempted. Her hair was once

long and black reflecting. She
is still innocent and I can't

forget her hands. It is as if she
has died and come back

to life. It is as if I carry

her on my back everywhere.

I go. I could write her
forever. She is my

oldest lover.