In Possible

I fell in love in a day's time, and ended it just the same.

At dawn, we met and, promptly thereafter, began holding hands without asking.
At noon, we married and laughed at our parents commenting on "our marvelous unity."
At dusk, I grew tired and you--restless. Separated. Among other trifles.
At moonlight, I died in my fatigue, and your weariness drove you to some distant pursuit that I was not alive to acknowledge and congratulate.

If only you were aware.
If only you thought of these happenings
as I did.

But you are.
You are, and have (always) been,
unaware.
As if what we had, and the marriage, and the suburbs, and the kids, and the divorce, and the despair,
was all in the faintest horizon of the past, far beyond our reach, never to be remembered, at times to be repressed.

As if we're friends.
As if we've (always just) been friends.

Acting Out of Irrepressible, Unfounded Aggression

I'm sorry.
I don't know what's wrong.

All Your esques And ishes

All your esques and ishes,
all your silent smiles,
all your news-clipped collages,
all your sexless pouts:
all my reasons to adore.

"I'm insanely happy I
know you," you'd write,
and I'd grin at the distant
possibilities I dreamt in my
distant unconscious.

You'd write from your window
one night "I wish that I saw
you outside" and my infatuation
with Futility began winningly.

"Merry Christmasesque."
"I've got stuff to doish."
And other curiosities that
made me fall in love with
a lesbian, if only for winter.

(What We Conceal in Parentheses)

I (still) miss you.
I (still) want you.
I (still) love you.

The stillness makes all the difference, right?