Now it’s 1:17 a.m.
I’ve lamented over
The Final Cut
over and over.
I wish we could have listened to it
together, anywhere where
two eyes,
two hearts,
could run dry.
Looking into the glassed eyes of
my reflection, I
cannot relinquish and reserve myself
for a friendship as trivial
as all the rest and
cannot cry again over
Neruda’s Poema Veinte,
cannot hold back my missing partner
holding our confidences
in front of me, of us, of them all,
in a question I
pray does not return
flat.
Tonight I have no energy
for you, beloved, my brief infatuate;
tomorrow will be like the first,
and after that,
we will be friends
but less.
