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’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.