I know nothing of love.
I know nothing of love.
I am void
I am
untouched
by the brilliantly burning flames of passion
the glowing embers of a rupture
the continuity of a sentence
the most beautiful of fragments
the least tiresome of run ons.
I
do not know
the triviality of
a kaleidoscope of monarchs
inhabiting the space of my stomach
the most desired discomfort
the overinflation of my vital organ
the catalyst to my respiratory function.
I
am unfamiliar to
the merge of anatomical apparati
the discovery of a purpose
non-existent before.
I
can not fathom
whispered thoughts and unspoken needs
the boldness of a cryptic string.
I observe.
I am silenced.
I know nothing of love.
I do not know if I want to.
Surely all this irregularity
is a disruption to homeostasis.