I’m out of sympathy and ’seems to me
it’s a damned heresy how convincing
you were when I took your hand. Is that how
you do it? Now, is that how you command?
When I look, your pound of flesh looks like an
artifact without a concept, it feels
like I’ve been blowin’ glass into sand and,
on my wall, I’ve hung our tired talk; plaques of
pillow-white, platinum-bright nights we chuck(l)ed
and whispered away; wrecked hearts you’d broken
the metrics of. Our heart-hits, beaten per
minute, leaked torrents of tears you (p)layed bare;
Out-souled and worn, silver signed and engraved
records our young rebellion, louder-than-
better, tellin’ me what you never did;
’bout your hand, how it had all of my love;
and all of my what-I-never-said. I
went and I unhid, and now you unfriend
and unlike me like a fanatical
fountain of (s)old stares, (s)talkin’ (down to) me,
vagrantly begging me to fade. Is that
really what you want; is that what you should
get for all of the undue pain you p(r)aid?