Untitled (On Blue, IV)

To bleed
and to love
blue
in its inky
divinity,
its richness
flecked with stars,
is a solitary act,
as if you are
an ethnographer
at a drug-laden party,
forbidden by
your own choice
your own role
your own purpose
in the whole damn thing;
it is the kind of love
that does not allow you
to consume it whole,
to devour
every last bit of it
out of your own lust,
and forces you
to be satisfied
by the impressions
it leaves on you
instead, no matter how much you
need
all of it.