Fire

Each time a moustache hair hurts me

I fantasize about spooning an anonymous woman in my twin bed

and brushing my lips across the back of her head.

I’m pretty sure I do this

in order to feel what it might be like to be her face,

since I like to fold perception back through projection

in order to feel like I’m shapeshifting into everything at once,

and get a kick out of letting my wants drop off under this harmonizing,

yet cold kind of honesty.

I wonder if others like me like to imagine wearing

a moustache-covered face and thinking to themselves

how easy it is to release the self from the fire of want,

when, under the right wild and beautiful kind of attention,

everything can, at least some of the time, become like everything else.

I wonder if like me when I’m thrown off my gallop

by emotions I can’t and don’t want to control,

they can admit to themselves they’re not wide open yet,

and more than anything, want to curl up under the stillness

of their own minds.

Can they be intellectually compatible with themselves?

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