Love did me in.
It slows you--but not in the bad way
bad is when you
can't react, when
you're reaching for
the doorknob you
should have locked
and only moved when
you saw the shadow
at the front window.
It slows good--like syrup from a tree
like honey from a jar's bottom
like the moments between kisses
like a squeeze behind the knee
Being done in = finished. It = death
It is death.
All previous files have been
gathered, tied, and then burned.
Anything that remains is read
with eyes that perceive former
self as stranger. As intruder. As
someone unwelcome.
What's left is disease.
It hurts the chest.
It stops the breath.
It quickens the pulse.
It brings chills.
It causes irrational behavior like pressing the cheek hard into the softness of a couch and feeling agony that there is no warmth to it, or pulse.