She is not alone after all.
Maybe it will be only me.

My thoughts crack as the seeds of doubt
Take root in whatever faults they find.
This is the perfect environment:
They are despair well fed.

One question is all that keeps it together:
Does it matter?
When I step outside, it will not be
To enter yet another room.
My dislike of walls has a long pedigree;
My desire for room to breathe is new.

I could inhale the skin of
A hundred lovers, at least in my mind,
But that has never been the point.
They come with violins, or workaday hair,
Or simple dresses, or poetic smiles;
That they are perfect is enough.

This time, at least, it is not about
The others, but about me. Perhaps,
After all, the lover I most desire is myself.

04/19/2016

Posted on 05/31/2016
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