There’s this bard I’ve been following around for about six fortnights.

He’s a philosopher, he just doesn’t know it yet.
He’s a connoisseur in the philosophy of enchantment.

The philosophy of infatuation, lust, love, enamoring.

It’s only natural that he feels how I feel about him like the feel of fleece feels on the skin of a 15 year old when the winter begins, deteriorating the relationship the leaves made with the ground.

Like the way the leaves deteriorated the relationship they had with green and how the red and oranges and yellows invaded. Not enough for you to understand my love for fall. Not enough to understand my love for you, my love.

Once I asked him to show me his identification and he told me he didn’t have a wallet. I saw the imprint in his back pocket. He told me it was just an empty space of what used to be there, like the bald spots that show up from worn out hair. Tugging and pulling and tearing apart, his wallet was the locks he cut off from the start.

I often suffer the presence of your limbs protruding from under the bed sheets, whispering words in portions, getting quieter and quieter and quieter like a door that opens and closes. Like a wall barbed with wire knocked down and rebuilt, knocked down and rebuilt. And as my limbs join yours under this fleece, I dream of the day you let me walk through the door and close it behind me.

I dream of the day you let me buy you a new wallet.