A poem of the end of love
My verses don't quite lie. Perhaps they shade
my sense of you. Perhaps they'll mitigate
keep fondness somehow in the face of hate.
I never thought of it as getting laid.
We're long past that. Truth – we were never there.
Too young, too smart, too cute, too self involved.
I understand you now. A problem solved
and yet, your lips on mine, a wisp of hair
that fell across your eyes that night you drove
me fast in darkness. I don't understand.
You said you never loved me, but your hand
your touch said otherwise. Perhaps I wove
a word trap for my heart where what was true
selected parts of me, the best of you
wisp eidolons so free of circumstance
they had their pure pale shadow of romance
no consummation there because no skin
to sweat or shudder. Nothing to betray
embarassed knowledge in the light of day
the best of us insolent tooth-flash grin.
You teasing. Beating heart that leaps absurd
gymnastic lust at any slight excuse.
I ask you let me go. And you refuse
You flirt my heart but will not say the word
the order of release. Now silent fall.
Anger and disappointment is our end.
Nothing of love remains. Nothing of friend.
These verses gild, transform, redeem it all.