She is Blue & Quiet,
Exhausted by Herself
Exhausted by Herself
In Ways I am
Not Allowed to say.
Not Allowed to say.
I AM
SPECTATOR TO SOME OTHER MAN'S DELIGHT & HANDPAINTED DESIRE, WATCHING THROUGH WINDOW GLASS AND THE RUNGS OF MY TEETH, EVEN THOUGH HER FACE IS THAT MUCH NEARER MINE, STILL, AND SO PLEASANT, WITH ALL YOUNG, DESPERATE EMOTION. IN HER, THE WINTER ESCAPING A BITTER SPRING.
I AM
HERE ONLY TO DRINK, MAYBE CHEW AT THE TOBACCO HIDING IN THE GRASS. I HAVE NO INTEREST, ANYMORE, IN DEALING WITH EXPECTATIONS AND PRESSING MY OWN TO OTHER LITTLE DREAMERS (SUCH AS LOVE-- AND MANNERS RELATED TO IT.) I HAVE TIRED HANDS IN PLACE OF A YOUNG MAN'S HELL-ACHING TOUCH REACHING FOR THE BELL CURVE OF A WOMAN'S BRUISED APPLE CHEEK.
HE WAS ALWAYS SO FULL OF LIES.
"You seem troubled,"
he says,
letting himself near with
a toss of his neck.
A MOMENT RINGS FOREVER. IN IT, HE TAKES A SIP AT SOME LAZILY-CREEPING CREEK BESIDE THEM, LIKE WASHING DREGS OR BLOOD OFF HIS HANDS. HE'S TIRED OF OPERATING ON PSYCHOLOGIES BEGGING FOR HELP BUT HE FINDS PEOPLE INESCAPABLE. HE'S ONE HIMSELF, YOU SEE.
