When I see a young (or not-so-young) writer counting syllables on her fingers, or marking stresses … I’m pretty sure we’ll have something in common, whatever our differences may be.
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[You did say, need me less and I'll want you more]
You did say, need me less and I'll want you more.
I'm still shellshocked at needing anyone,
used to being used to it on my own.
It won't be me out on the tiles till four-
thirty, while you're in bed, willing the door
open with your need. You wanted her then,
more. Because you need to, I woke alone
in what's not yet our room, strewn, though, with your
guitar, shoes, notebook, socks, trousers enjambed
with mine. Half the world was sleeping it off
in every other bed under my roof.
I wish I had a roof over my bed
to pull down on my head when I feel damned
by wanting you so much it looks like need.
from: Love, Death, and the Changing of the Seasons. Copyright 1986.
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