To my palindromic arthritis,

swilled from the densest blazing parts of

my being.

Yes, I have been yearning for this

confrontation since the first cold gleam of
the moon this year that made me aware of
your proficiency. Crying out my pain and
shaking the furrows of my throat by
shouting the name of Christ whenever I
would be out of ability to scratch my thigh
at night for the cause of your presence. I
could write to you never-ending letters,
sonnets about the greatness of the pain you
unmercifully made me take on, as it kills all
the loveliness and youth in me. But how
shall I write them with such an abhorrent
bulge within my wrist, like a prehistoric
chondrite, making my hand seem strange
and beastly. I hawk at the heavens for
destining me to feel more at hand than
heart! My immortal companion, don’t you
understand that my life with you as it is
now is a miserable life? Without an
intermediary, I ask of you to die, die out of
me, will you? Because I will forever deny
every assumption of you being a part of
what I am. Never will I think of you as
familiar, hence - do the ruling of Zion and
pitch darken my sunniest, zestfulest days.
But heed that for thee, hate is not stored
even in the thinnest clusters of my heart,
purely out of gratitude and deference for I
could only wish if you were to show
everyone what true fidelity is. Maybe this
is why the seniors are the kindest of us.
Never doubt the hopefullest heart of your
juvenile valate.

With love of length such as

your devotion
J.R