Stopping At Curves

I don't write a poem.
The poem writes me
for you. A ceremony of
tears to fill in the vacuum.

Those eyes were blue
like the serene lakes. How
my rock salt melts for
the swan's neck!

A part of my psyche
went to you for a smile
in my rare self-pride.
Why the flame flickers violently?

How much intimacy
you need to touch the moon?
Let the darkness of sun
decide at twilight.

It was always difficult
to live between the commas.