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,
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
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.
Love is a confidence game and I was the mark.
And this is the hit, I’ll give you a running start.
There’s never a right time to leave, so I don’t,