The house is silent
and I feel ashamed.
‘I love him so much’
‘Yeah – I can tell.’

I’ve underestimated myself again
how anxious I am around love
for hours.

and then –

hatred, blame, conspiracy
though you mate them constantly
though held in tension
slightly dissolved for her – but still seething
in jostled pulp

your love for her.

jealousy remains
but anger has fled
as hope and joy arranged her cheeks
and pulled her brow into soft warmth
on hearing you pull up

and looking at you walking in
she smiled like she was fixed.

and she kept her gaze
and she radiated love
and she looked at peace
in your arms

and i hated myself
and i hated myself
and i hated myself
for being a novelty

When I woke up dead
those months when I was another
and mortared brick spilled from my mouth
did I suspect that when I returned
my dreams would fall away?

A man works as he can
and perhaps the gold would love the dragon anyhow
and I can’t hate you
and I’m so glad.

though the house is quiet
and I miss laughter
and that lattice of aether
which carries importance
which may have carried fulfillment

i sit
silent and lonely
a balloon filled with warm water
slowly filling up inside my nasal cavity –
a song that now makes me cry

not even breathing.
no soft stirring.
no contented sigh
and feeling safe and warm

Those things tied loosely by demand

but you love as you can
and you’ve been there
and I can’t be angry with you
now that she’s better –

I can’t be angry at love.

It’s not that I have lost –
because there is no game here –
it’s only that I know now
there will never be another November
and that to be important
isn’t a promise
or a wish
or a set of axioms
or the giving of yourself

but circumstance
and listening more.

but… who am I now?


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