I have a name.
I can't remember it anymore, but
I have one. I know how your lips
shape it, the pull & pucker, the
press of tongue to teeth to form
a phoneme I should recognize but
don't. I know the feel of it, so
warm and effortless when spilled
against my skin. It haunts me, a
ghost of who I was before I knew
the ecstasy of your exclamation,
the epiphany in your exultation,
the way every invocation becomes
yes.
Or I Give Myself Very Good Advice, But I Very Seldom Follow It. Echo lives in a basement apartment, walls softened with photos, posters and paintings--but only one of him, out of the way by the linen
Start with putting your ego on a longer leash; you can't let it go entirely--why write if not to tell yourself about yourself--but it mostly just gets in the way of getting anything done. Next, write.
The only mine I've ever known has been hard-fought, hard-won, all bloody knuckles and broken ribs, all set shoulders and subtle sneer-- won't take no for an answer, defiance the only way I know. It's