I’ve replaced the names with poems.

I’ve harvested every cathartic drop of memory in order to create something fathomable.

Your legacies have been transmuted into tangible word for the world to scrutinize; your quintessence embodied in language; our interactions imbued in comprehensible shapes and stanzas.

If I’ve written a poem about you, it means that I want to remember.

Who, What, Where

When, or Why, 

may be negligible.

It is the ambiguity of the ‘how’ that evokes the obligation 

to pick up the pen and translate emotions to English. 

Whether it be the way my breath flowed forth from my lungs or the method of which the consequential lethargy of time itself affected my haemel functions: the act of scrambling my thoughts into a belligerent swarm of flies, one which I must whack away at furiously until the maggots transcend into fuzzy little worker bees that may reap me sweet honey.

Frenzied and enslaved, 

I feel to write and write to feel. 

It’s become too much.

If I leave anything out, my brain may apologize, for my heart is the poet and my soul its vector.

Perhaps the creature you awoke within me, whatever that may be, was too much for me to tame into docility. 

The only way I could wrangle it was with analytical truth: the letters and syllables that may reveal to me the clemency of which I seek in all the wrong places --as I pray for steam to be cooled into condensation that I may press my lips against and at long last be spiritually quenched.

After all, it is pure, unhallowed possession that seizes the courses of my scribely actions. 

I compel the stipulated sentiments into a lyrical substance so that I may better comprehend their purpose: the omniscient rationale for our serendipitous coexistence. 

I am prophet. 

You are divinity. 

I’ve replaced the names with poems, you see, 

but acrid memory still haunts me.