I could see you a countless number of times
just to leave your single-family dwelling and
feel the contented longing living without you brings.
The radio says I don’t want to be right
whether we sit quietly in the darkness
or gaze into the emotional horizon purple
polluted with the Post-War American Dream.
Looking back,
I wish I might have copied so many of the songs
I listen to,
whether they are heavy piano numbers
or the average Friday afternoon anthem.
It is these that teach me the difference
between frustrated longing and depression,
or grateful joy and codependency.
I could see you a countless number of times at your East Ridge home
and leave feeling contented for leaving.
Laughing that we are stubborn as a tiny splinter
upon our lives, I cannot deny that we are both
encaged.
But
I won’t know the future of
the expired,
and I should know if
I’m to do my job
as a cadaver.
Many days,
I intake resonance
so lonely and sad and diseased
so I could choose
indefinence
reluctance.
Darting in circles,
drifting aimlessly,
I am pinpointed towards a gypsum target
and I should have you know that my igneous cage could slice
a nerve, so I do not expect company.
My dear, you will never enter my metamorphosized shell,
and I never yours,
but perhaps
we will hang next to each other one day on a high ceiling,
stretching our chains crookedly.
I saw you a time
in your Section-8 daydreams
to leave feeling contented
that I finally left.
