Intervals Of Impulse Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Remember when our hearts beat like cymbals?
Love, must you always be planning ahead
Can't we act on intervals of impulse?
Once we spoke the words of the alphabet
In the silence that transcended language
and filled a whole encyclopaedia
Every utterance is now re-examined
Nowadays, I feel like anaemia-
have drained the blood from my heart and my face
Where does all our spontaneity go?
Nowadays, I can't get a warm embrace.
And every verbal word is a death blow.
Love, must you always be making up lists?
Does every moment require an eclipse?