I don't know what I forgot,
love, but I hate all the words for it. Like recollection, you hit me-- like you're lightning and I am just a cable satellite dish wondering, "How can something that'd stop your heart come out like The Notebook ?" But if I know anything it's that I hate to be cute, so I'll ask a real question now: is it that I can't remember love or how to love a memory? I get to bumbling because a lot of people have told me a lot of things about love and poetry and love poetry. Yawn, I know. Are you still reading, G? See, this one time L said poetry came too easy to me; obviously, it was my life I needed to fix, not my language. Someone else said simply, "don't." Was that me? Oh, and everyone knows what H wrote: words are elegy to what they signify. Isn't that a tad too TV for you? For us? Unless he was talking purely in the scientific sense of the minute interstice between a reality outside my ...