Respect that the words don’t know how to flow today, love. They congeal and coagulate. You can’t be part of them. Viscosity is a bitch and so is insolubility. Put the stopper in one bottle and unscrew the cap on another. Your Google search for thin liquids brings up articles on dysphagia, and you’ve never had trouble swallowing gin. Maybe there’s a martini you’re missing out on while you’re trying to write. Uncork absinthe’s sadness and let it breathe into your basement. You’re not really thinking of drinking; inebriation keeps being a metaphor for organs you don’t want to discuss. You never forget that the body is simultaneously literal and figurative, and the liver was once the source of emotions. When you wish emotions had a source, you look up binaural frequencies to boost dopamine. Love, my love, my treasure, there is nothing here to fix. You let the ice crack into irregular beauty: sometimes it’s almost invisible.
Poem for a day when I cannot write
