i know what its not ...

its not a picture or a memory
a laic or chaste soliloquy.
you cheapen it with words
it’s a homesick sadness but its not nostalgia
you cant give it
take it
you cant make it
change it.

It’s thick in your throat
but you cant taste it
                like hate
you cant swallow it
                like pride
you cant vomit it
                like valentines
       spit it
                like enamours.

you cant nail it like flesh
you wont understand it better if you hang it on wood.

its not a song; a melody
rhetoric, rhyme, or rhapsody
its fascination; enthralment; amazement; infatuation
with the wheezy queeze
of that dire impulse to fall to your knees.

It’s timeless like love
nameless like unborn cadavers
it’s the backwash of your inhalations and the aftermath of hope.
it’s not in the flames below your tightrope
not the dreams that come
    in the thick of the smoke
or the dismal martyr’s antidote ...

no
its something else