I didn’t mean to fall for you, just like
Jim Morrison didn’t mean to kill himself, just like
I could read about both subjects in my nostalgia
you and I, children on their bicycles
ushering in impotence.
The worst isn’t over, I hope, drowning,
please excuse my madness.
You blink before me and miss
the flashing light of my soul
drying the nature of observation.
My soul,
it’s been in front of us like the past, and I
must wait until this staccatoed interaction
eludes me.
The heart has always been
a metaphor.
