It is how the poem never ends
when you write about how
you loved her so much
in such a brief time
with so much passion.
It is how my poem always ends
when I write about how
he loved me very little
with not enough passion.
It is how you let her
close enough to hurt you
and how I let him too close
to burn me
and he certainly did.
I suppose as she burned you
with her fire.
He had this way of making me feel
like a poet
and nothing else.
Never keep up with stranger’s intentions
let them all walk on broken glass
as we sit and watch the show.
We will talk about how they
knew nothing about poetry
and French philosophers
and designer cafe lattes
we will turn the tables
on them
and watch them fall down
or be brave enough to sit and discuss
what we are even fighting for
when all the fight in us is long gone.
In the here and now,
I will let you close enough
and be prepared
for your desertion.