my pages, this poem here is a pome or a poem or whatever you choose to call what it does to your senses eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and lips and more than whatever those represent to you, dearest reader, or so i presume to name you dear,

but mean it affectionately, for we are a pair, the two of us, but who is the soldier, who is the leader can you answer me, do you dare say little reader? can we begin again, begin over, begin at the beginning

shall we start over? we shall pretend we are familiar, we shall dance and sing songs, stumble when we drink ourselves drunk, kiss and makeup after hardships long long after the sun sets over the arctic of your lamp,

an expansive time for kissing you, telling you i am the one that you must remember musk scented arms and damp and wet under

don't disappoint, keep reading me lover or should we fight, be enemies demons and derelicts, scum to be squashed by each other be eradicated, debilitated simply O! so simply depised and hated i could hate you if that's what you need me for hate you cold with a vengeance or hot with a fury or tepid and lukewarm with the fiercest indifference, painted white

like a movie screen but why not love me and i will love too, I will breathe cinnamon dreams to your lungs scale the alps, keep you young in the pages between my book on your nightstand, my pages, this poem, or whatever it is, just don't end me, keep reading and reading and reading of, for, about me and i'll write to you, write for you, write everything and we shall have

symmetry