Love Story (Lame)

This is a little like high school
he said, when I wouldn't take off my clothes.
It was true, although in high school
I would've come over to torture him deliberately
and now the torture was an unfortunate side effect
of my sadness, and had nothing to do with him at all.
Sleeping with you would be like
a drowning woman grabbing an anvil,
I explained. A burning man guzzling gasoline.
Lame analogies, but I was trying to make a point.
When he got up for a drink, I missed him
but that feeling disappeared once he came back.
I sat there and tried to feel sad,
tracking my blue mute form
as it sank to the ocean floor.

Yours Alone

This thing-

you'd think it would show up when you're driving some windy brook road,

the road where the stars open up like a chasm ready to swallow you

and you're so small. This is so small.

But that would mean it was a feeling, or a sense memory,

something to be experienced and then forgotten. But it's not, it is real,

it has become real. It has teeth, and they chatter with the anxiety that death leads to nothing.

It has moved in with you and it weeps all day. Strangely, it is attractive to you in ways you never knew you could find a thing attractive; it's thin, pale, naked, sexless. Is this what you want now? What could this possibly mean? That you are ready to accept that love is boundless, faceless-even forgiving- or that you were just going along your lonely way and this is what happened?

You can ponder it all you want, but this is yours now. It's yours alone.