truth

This is not a poem about love.
Not about lust
or longing.

THEY were too sweetly closed, too similar, too pleasing.
As compatible as a pair of golden retrievers-
gentle and undeniably mundane.
They did not hide beneath masks- no they were hermits behind mirrors.

Looking backwards, forwards, up and down, she wondered why did we bother kiss at all? I’d open my eyes to find yours closed
Were you searching?

I realized in the shower, late.
(Always so cursedly late the birds sing and its not natural! It’s not right that they’re UP and I’m not even down).
I was thinking about Aveda and aphrodisiacs when I realized.
There is such a thing as too much abstraction.

Our kindness flakes away into glassy apathy and I’m left wondering
…?
Me and you- it’s like wandering through a labyrinth.
The only thing I know is true is that it’s not love.