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


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?
No. You?

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:

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.


You think, therefore you are.

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