Tuesday, June 8, 2010

End or A Retrospective on More Than One

I don't miss the things poets say that I should:
my heart's feeling like sunsets, or our walks through the wood.
I don't really miss the kisses we shared,
one arm 'round your waist, hands gliding through hair.

Our entanglement: a convenient discharge of needs.
Did it mean much? I don't know; emotionally,
could a "we" have ever been said to exist?
Can lithe, waving reeds marry unfeeling fists?
We were foolish; we needed a pretext to feel
the things seen on TV or on Hollywood reels.

But I do miss the time spent, in more ways than one —
you so pleasantly kept me from writing and fun.
Better yet, you kept me from irritants, strife,
the erosive, drab nature of everyday life.
The things that I truly miss now, in the end,
are the same I'd have kept with my other close friends.

I suppose, looking back, I deserve to hurt more.
In the end, I'm the jerk, if you're still keeping score,
for I suspected, deep down, our relationship's use:
as most, a long-standing, all-purpose excuse.