I dreamt (deampt is my spelling always).
I dreamt of you last night. I fell asleep on a pillow. Arms hanging down.
I kissed you out of fear. I
I told her that we can’t be together.
I told the same girl I loved her.
I said one thing to one.
And another to another.
It doesn’t look right [what i’m TRYING to say].
I said we can’t be, to her.
And said to another that I love her.
I know I love.
I know, I love.
I meant both.
But I didn’t mean the former.
I mean that my lack of love, our not being together is how it must be – but I didn’t mean it. I just meant for now. I must suffer. A little, always.
Taint and poison myself just a touch, else i’ll erupt in happy-error.
God help me.
I told her I don’t love her.
Even though I have.
I have in the past.
Even though I do.
Even though I hate her.
As I have hated in the past.
I told another I love her,
Even though I did not love her in the past.
And might not love her in the future.
I could, I may, I might get close enough for her-
for her to put a dagger in my eye.
In my mouth. Splitting my tongue; like feelings of timeliness.
I told her I loved her.
I told another I loved her.
Both are untrue.
Both are false.
My love will change as theirs will.
Pills are both hard and easy to swallow.
The vomit may be cause or effect.
My love for both of them is poetic-
the truth the lies in my loss.
Both are the same in my understanding of language.
In so far as definitions: I propose, I am in love
but at its heart is a small-town sickness.
Where the sun counts hours,
and revolution is only half the answer.
Light and dark and love and hate I thought could only be experienced with the absence of one but instead i’m here loving and hating it all. Daily. Nightly.
Face down, arms hanging from a pillow.
Spiel? “Yiddish you say”…