Caesuras

I’d write a love poem but I don’t have anyone to write it for.

 

I’d write a love

poem but I don’t have anyone

to write it

for.

 

I’d write

a love poem but I don’t

have anyone

to

write for.

 

I’d write a

love poem but

I don’t have

anyone to write

about.

 

I’d write a love poem but

I don’t have

anyone.

 

I’d write a poem

but I don’t

love you.

 

I love you but

I won’t write

you a poem.

 

I don’t write

poems about people

I don’t love.

 

I can’t right, or write, or love, or loathe you.

 

This is how words fail. This is how love fails. This is how

I make up

for the fact that

I can’t have you I don’t

have anything, much less anyone

to write for.

—-

 

 

I wrote someone a love poem once but

he did not get it. He got mad

and we fought for two hours over a line he misconstrued. Funny

because I said he’d probably mistake it for the longing

he has seen. See, I called his eyes

ugly and he thought I meant it literally. When did I ever

mean things literally, much less actually meant them. But no,

that time, I did. I wanted to write you a poem,

it started, I couldn’t because I couldn’t memorize

the lines on your face. It was the truth I knew

but he didn’t. Two months ago he walked away

from me on a bright day on a busy street. Cruz wrote about that

Morning and I read it whenever I am mourning. I asked for

more, I insisted on hunger. Actually, I am starving. Sometimes,

like now, I am given much more than I asked for

but I couldn’t bring myself to wanting it. He arrived

when he left. Perhaps he was always there. He told me he loved

me last night. He opens the car door for me and all

I could think about is yes, dear, I want to get out. Now.

A pretty blue-eyed girl on screen asks, When you propose to someone

do you want her to just consider it? Ashton Kutcher smiles

at her sadly. Or do you want her to just know? I have the same

delusions about love — hyperbolic, otherwise

no, thank you. None. Empty. Like how I felt when he, and he, and he left. Again

and again and again until I am too tired

to want. But I still do, sometimes

we give in, sometimes when we touch. Water’s knee-deep, clear

but shallow. Like our conversations. We talk about fine dining

and road trips but you and I once argued

about — no, we always argue. A fiery pit. I’m your Beatrice

and that was your Inferno. You should have been Dante

instead you were named after some German (or was he French):

from heaven, through Earth, to hell. To infinity

and beyond! My sister calls her boyfriend Lightyear and I am

still wondering if it is because of Buzz. Funny

how I asked for too much now I am given a little and I would

rather do without. Hey now, hey

Now, I wonder what it would be like

if you knew about the skeletons in my closet. I forgot what

the bone marrow is for but I’m sure it’s there, somewhere,

someone’s. I wonder about your closet and what it contains. You own

a total of three different shirts and rotate them every

week. You usually look stupid but I pretend

not to notice, instead I swoon whenever

you speak. Much more when you don’t. Much has been said,

but we wait for pauses because–uh. I should have

asked you about consciousness and if there is a delay

between a thought and an utterance. You would

have explained and I would have pretended to listen

listening instead for those pauses, your short intakes

of breath. Inhale, exhale, die. Die a slow,

painful death. Like I said, 

you know I’m almost dead, you know 

I’m almost gone. But I am not. A minute

before midnight and I promised myself I would

do things right this time — starting now. Tick tock

goes the clock, they always say. But no, they are wrong:

for time passes without a sound. That is why

we say the moments fly by without us knowing it. It is

because we don’t hear. Aren’t you aware

of how much is lost just because the seconds go

without so much as a so long, suckers? It has gone

on the first /s/. Gone, like the wind. Gone with the wind. Gone,

like all the cynicism remaining in my system when you

arrived. No, actually, I arrived. I was late but you weren’t mad. I said

sorry but I don’t think you have ever really forgiven

me. You make me suffer but you are not aware. Sometimes I am not,

too. I think of others, like the one who just said he loves me — hah, me! Me

who is writing you this love – hate – late poem you would

never read, nor I would want you to read. And so I start again. I start again and

I end it again this way. I wanted to write you a poem,

I’d borrow, from an old piece, but then

I’d say this: I wanted to,

but I don’t have you. 

 

 

This is not a poem but at least it’s for you.

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