the most romantic thing I can make myself say to you
(is “be my excuse for writing bad poetry”)
Don’t bother unpacking.
This is how it goes down:
I take up too much of your time as you take up mine.
After a few months, we’re both unhappy,
every evening while we go through the trivialities of
is even worse.
Have you written anything today?
That’s how it ends
(how ends start).
Then I write a few lines about the voiceless void
we’re cooking in,
and make believe you are still enough
of a mystery
for me to weave my stories around you.
I make plausible rationalizations.
This happens to everyone after a while.
It’s a difficult, humid summer.
You’ve had a bad day at work.
I make believe we are not both in this
That pain is only a side-effect,
not the means to both our ends.
On second thought:
I’ve changed my mind (again).
I will need the time we steal from each other,
as an excuse for
writing a disjointed, self-indulgent poem
such as this one.