A Month of Poetry: Six
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.