communal melancholy

There’s never a right time to leave, so I don’t.

The years pass and I field over,
a gentle hill off the shoreline,
lapping love
with nothing to show for it but a steady deposit of silt.

And love is a shallow pit, boulder on my chest made to fit.
A thin crack,
enough to listen
as vacation plans are made and talk of romantic getaways.

And love is a frozen pond that I fell through once
- still waiting to resurface.
All reports of my whereabouts kept in-house (the
indiscretion of losing one’s mind, or finding it).

And love is a pit deep enough to bury bodies, to purge
the polite strangers that held hands,
and their families and the lawyers and
love
detained at the border
by the homicidal confidence of a six-year-old boy.
His short finger pressed against
the Fisher-Price clock in my chest,
winds me back at whim
as he readies himself for the door.

And love is a trick in a Vaudeville act, and I want my money back.
I got swindled by cheap sentiment (A final
handjob before the paperwork).

I got love
leftover, I got evidence left to plant. You see
I was here all along, while you and the imposter
laid roots in me.

For love is a pit, beneath a hill, beneath a pond, beneath a tree,
and the tree is the guy they greet
when they say my name,
when they say they love me,
meanwhile, my body
disobliging, floats to the surface like a botched suicide.

Surprise.

Love is a confidence game and I was the mark.
And this is the hit, I’ll give you a running start.

Happy Anniversary.

There’s never a right time to leave, so I don’t,
love you
anymore.

“We(’re All in this Together)”

Halle-Neustadt (Germany)
December 2015

CC BY-NC-ND 3.0

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