Here’s the funny thing about gratitude:
no one really gives a shit.

That sounds very much like a

glass-half-empty sort of argument.

Regardless of the inherent pessimism,

I promise to do nothing but to be truthful.

There is such a thing as feeling,

feeling too much for things that don’t exist.

It’s not a seance if the one with whom

you are trying to commune

is just 14 paces to your left adjacent;

she breathes the same air

you do.

You’re not bringing back the dead

with your mindless and hurried chatter.

You’re simply adding soil to the top

of the grave of what could have been.

Because the more she gets to know you,

the more repulsed she becomes.

Her slippers would never move in time

to the beat of the a capella songs you write

for those too pained to sing.

Sure, she might have been a dancer.

This gave her the gift of holding

herself like a flute of fine wine

in the hands of a debonair debutant.

Don’t confuse beauty with longing.

Because the sunset doesn’t wish you

to tuck it in at night.

The Auroras that flicker to the north

have no wish to feel your lips pressed

against her lightening waves.

That scarlet cross that weighs heavy

on each of your cheeks flushed

with longing and confusion

is as sanguine as you could ever hope

her lips to one day be.

Chapped by being swallowed by another.