by Chrissy

In The Thick of Woods

Call the technical help desk, report BSOD error

and the possibility

of permanent damage

to my operating system, but

everyone knows the internet lies.

Do not believe wikipedia and other

nonsense. Everyone knows poetry

is heading toward its own natural

destruction by overusing language.

Everyone except the poets, that is.

I googled it, with one eye open.

I love my search bar now,

we have this intense love affair.

I search for you and you appear.

As if you were a God from some

other time. I find you in seconds.

In the deep ocean, you hide,

in the thick of woods, you sleep,

in my mind, you live,

and all this over the fact that

I loved the wrong man for

a few months. He used the

vocabulary of poets.

He knows how fools like us

fall in puddles

and potholes.

I know that I swerve the wheel

in the last second,

or most of the time,

I fall right into it

again and again.

I promise I will not go back

in time for no one,

but for my own sanity.

I could never be in this lifetime with you,

but I never thought

how you could bleed

art on your canvas,

the exact way I could

paint words

on white paper.

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