I take myself as lover

I am my most faithful, most loyal

my most devoted

  no colours can flood me

with their false passion

  but I wish

that the thought, at three ten in the morning

wouldn’t wake me

  with the subtle turn of your shoulders

and when I press

my untouched lips together

  well, it hurts

like if a 100-year old eucalyptus tree were to fall on you

  and your arms

(around everyone but me)

they exist constantly in my periphery

  So I make do

  I substitute the craving

of deep, truthful propinquity

  for the profundity of music,

and when I take a really good coffee

  or I see clouds blushing magenta

like visual orgasms

whisking away a six o’clock sunset

  Or sometimes when I drink too much

vodka cranberry repeated down my throat

eleven times

  And the sharp bubbles

seem to catch me, croon me into false happiness

alone

  and alone

and alone again

  and honestly I believe I can be very happy

alone

  but

when you and your eyes, your smile

  interrupt a train of innocent, irrelevant thought

in the middle of nowhere

like a death’s-head hawkmoth

flying beautifully and ominously

into the room

  I know that this

might be

more

  but is it? But is it more

than the mere

chasing of time?

or the long, hot showers I indulge myself in

  when I feel that I simply can’t

take these mornings that

thrust their ficticious cheer

into my sneering face

  maybe upon you too

  and now, too often

embarrassingly often

  I talk to myself, and my hands

through the edge of my pillow

  and it’s my bloody, throbbing, bloodied heart

throwing toxic wires into the abyss

  not thinking about where

the daggers land

  or who they land in

  and it pulls my brain

out through the top of my head…

  and I’m falling into a deep pit

of monotonous slime

  this slime of routine

whose layer of thick honey

is what deceives me every day

   but even so

  I do tend to

make sure

that the disappointment of reality

  dissolves away, evening to morning