fly underground : one hundred and seventy nine: counting lines

one hundred and seventy nine: counting lines



I want

to run away–

no, toward something like you,

dirty diamond on the edge of my horizon

but I know that I am not coming home to you any time

soon. I have these dreams of the two of us reading the Sunday paper together, drinking teas you collected on

your last trip to India and nothing in the news breaks our hearts or spoils our breakfasts: we become those lovers, who never think about anyone else and I know that sounds

terrible but it wouldn’t be for us. And I was just thinking, I could come over now and say something profound about this being it – the grand it, the I am in love with all of this it. You know, you’ve read the books. The thing is that I am not brave enough to tell

you those things, even if they are true and even if they are about you (everything is always about you) and if I was more of a human being, I would have mailed you a thousand Valentine’s cards in July, written a shitty couplet in each one, about your smile or your natural scent, the best kind of car freshener to keep around. But this isn’t even about grand gestures, this is about holding your hand or calling you when I say I will –

but I won’t. I’m good at things like that and you might fall in love with me like that and I will tell you not to - because I am never going to come over in the middle of the night with flowers or alcohol and I am never going to whisper I love

you, even if you say it first and promise to say it last. This isn’t about who loves whom more because I would win – you think you would win because I never

seem to kiss you back and I pull my arms out from under your hugs in ten seconds flat. But this

doesn’t mean I love you less. I dream all the things I want

to tell you and feel it stretch out

like a vanishing point: there

is so much

you do



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