Poema Fílmico #60

For Robin

I think I've lost it.
Either the grip
or the tip
of a set of prints that
once ripped through
any white blank page
or writer's block
that faced
Thee.
.
Three.
The times that I have
told my other self,
in hasty soliloquies,
that we are not to fall
for yet another pair
of bare
feet
that seem to
retreat
At the very sound
of that opioid junk
you call love.
.
I think I've found it.
Either the script
or a crypt
where the past lovers
decided to resurrect,
knowing that my ghost
no longer aches and
has finally broke
Free.
.
Spree.
Of reckless sex that,
somehow, always preceeds
an unexpected encounter
with those big curls that
spot me, totally unaware
to bear
the sweet
and sudden
defeat
from the very thing
that I swore not
to call love
.
I think I've kept it.
Either a blip
or a peep
of those two weeks that
turned out to the be months
of our interlocked embrace
victorious dancing and posing
and lazy nights of watching
Glee.