for Neil
Sorry, we cannot meet:
there are two lines that cannot intersect
like us, and I dodged the bullet, and the
collapse of our quantum wave functions.
Thanks Schrödinger – there are people
I never met, cannot meet, will be unfazed
to see in other timelines.
How I did break my ankle,
or your date, or what we could
have not ever destroyed.
Shadows of man all over –
the floors, in the closet
I left open to exorcize him,
yet he’s out there, in your love.
But he’s no ghost, not lost
as this transparent stain
on my clothes. I can’t wash so
I do my hair, I think I’m pretty
enough to turn off the creeping
spirit, but no – he’s taken over.
Within your eyes, he came
divine, like an idol, or a bust –
all roads lead to his offerings.
I wash my skirts again, having
lost, in every manner he is gone.
Where he homes I cannot haunt,
and my girly hands fade my touch.
Everything was hot:
the tea you brewed,
this flush you didn’t
notice or notice you
brewed. I’m with the
tea leaves, a bottom
too dark I sank to.
I strolled into a cup,
thinking you’d drink
from it. I’m sorry i’ve
added a dose of tears:
you weren’t eating nor
drinking well, either.
And once you strolled
right into the dark of
my eyes. Two points:
you didn’t notice this;
or I needed to weep
something sharp, like a
teardrop. Seconds pass
like the daily dose of
longing. Hot iron is all I
cry nowadays, the kind
steaming on your table.
Your gaze found a lamp.
Tonight, I deconstructed love
into a thousand paper cranes.
I don’t even like folding cranes,
like the long wait. Like teleology,
my hands were always destroying
paper; fold my neck to cognize down.
Crane, just to be blinded by flight.
My hands were always sweating,
slipping thoughts of you into vacuum;
all directions evaporate in departure,
and these hands cannot give warmth.
Lune L. 