are these the words?
A life so full that it explodes in each remembered moment,
each moment its own unending.
Swept up by music, blood pumps to my heart,
pumps that "I-must-write."
But are these the words?
This world will always be for me
one that cannot be loved until after,
an after the park bench pretzel,
after the sun's burn on muddy beaches kind of love.
I have a slow grip (have I.)
Slow but steady; strong--but slow.
(except for you; my grip was instant, for you.)
So. Here I sit, searching for words to explain
my grip that searches only after and makes
all that much more powerful,
a golden blood rush--
heart exploding.
