Wanted Man ...Not Just in the Way I'd Prefer

The saints are in the black list.  ― Ilkin Santak

I type in a circle of light In an empty room, Surrounded by shadows And ghosts of you.

I’m not dramatic, But intense— Everything focused And heightened by tens.

I keep apart— A hermit on a desert,

But everything goes through My heart and emerges With your lipstick

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Isolation Makes me sensitive.

I write best at night while the animals sleep, the house creaks and the windows are black

I’m Ulysses Every time I venture Beyond my circle of light

And yes, I admit it’s true I'm no saint—

But I still come out to see your face.

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