When you find yourself forging interest, and yet still holding back windows of opportunity for an “I love you,” that is hanging in the air more stale than a bedroom still condensed with the thick scent of sleep. When you dream up every possible fantasy of the ideal man, that is only real in photos from last year. And each and every day is a no longer a spark of possibility that “things are going to get better,” because most likely no fire will be set, and no spark will emerge, and that “I love you,” isn’t going to turn into an “I love you too,” and so why are you sitting here writing yet another post about someone who forgot to call you back…again?
that was rhetorical.
choking down words of plea.
curled up with muscles wretched
against a bed post of notches.
once more you cheated yourself into lust
that felt like love, that felt like life.
that metallic desire tugs effortlessly.
a pretentious happiness was tricked into
the feigned interest of a man.
your body given, your words written
just to end in another poem about love and sex.
One more wound left open and the salt trickles in.
doors are opened to the next room of the human condition that can’t be escaped.
the only syllables to leave your tongue: ‘such is life.’