Poetry

90. the most romantic thing I can make myself say to you

stay

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
relationship-talk.
Art-talk
is even worse.

Have you written anything today?
No. You?
No.

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.
I’m PMS-ing.
You’ve had a bad day at work.

I make believe we are not both in this
for ourselves.
That pain is only a side-effect,
not the means to both our ends.

On second thought:
Unpack.
Stay.

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.

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