A Month of Poetry: Six

by thereisnosurvivorsguide

This love is perfect. I often think

it is the kind that inspires movies, songs and

poetry. When I contemplate this out loud

you often reply, from the space between your grinning dimples,

in your signature cliché: “Only better, because it is real.”

Somehow even repetition looks better on you

to me. The image of the late afternoons we spend

tangled in each other- unsure where one begins and

ignoring any possible ends- while the sun paints

dancing rainbows on our bedroom walls

and the cats beg readmittance from behind

the closed door- constantly plays in my head.


But this too is just an illusion. The image we want

to cling to as reality unveils. It tastes like the kiss

we manufacture before parting: expectation, ordinary, routine.

The bad taste of a shrink-wrapped brownie from the vending machine

that we accept as a substitute because we aren’t willing

to create more. Or willing, we don’t know how.

Who has energy to truly satisfy this craving?

Instead we settle for bitter replications of

pairings, sold many times before.