The Lover

Not sure what it would be like to have a lover

that leaves you after you give him parts of your body

to replace your soul. If he would even see the

invisible bruises that others never see through. Perhaps

giving myself to my lover would embark

on getting myself back one day. To stand

on top of the Parthenon and chant some

Greek song in my veins. I lived with you

and I lived without you. I suppose I do both

with a talent you have never witnessed. It matters

not that you are above me, or a thousand miles away,

or in downtown Montreal, or time zones away,

or in my bed. What matters most are all the

moments you wanted to be on top of me,

under me, damaging me with your hands,

your body, your needs. That matters when

all else is blown to destruction. When logic

means you are my lover. My lover that

never leaves. The lover that reads my eyes

like a favorite book. I would not have

to say one word, you would merely kiss

my thoughts away. All this with one

sweep of a key, under a rug, left in the

flower pot, the way you remembered when

you were eight and had to go home alone.

It never really gets better

does it? The lover will be one moment

that will make it worse.

I am so full of disappointments

and high rise fears.

Let the lover change names

and bodies and move on to

a young pretty thing

that does not self-destruct

with poems.

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