It slices the night into two pieces to know someone

who can love, who is fully capable, but cannot love me.

That day you said you were a kiwi, hairy and fuzzy on the

outside, all green on the inside.  And I rebelled

because I insist on being the green one.  Forest green, kelly

green, mint green, green to still be within the circle…

my front door slamming of its own volition, the inside

door slamming of my volition.  I chose and my choice is

what remains.

What I really want is to be an apple, for its crisp red skin,

full of seeds on the inside, sweet, ordinary, and round.

Yet I could never be round.  I don’t have the guts that roundness requires.

Thinking I had guts obscured me, thinking I could

drown you into oblivion…

without drowning myself.

Submission, submersion, sounds, lists of sounds,

all the little sounds we made.

It was madness.  There.  I’ll say it for you.

I always knew exactly how to phrase what you couldn’t.

Why not brag?  Why not brag about how I expected

to emerge unchanged?  Why not champion our stupidity

like America and breakfast?  Why not just admit

there was a subtle moment we had something,

ourselves, our skin jammed into the same small space?

I don’t know if I loved you…

or if I loved you…

Because it simply was, I might never know.

I only know the tender touch of corruption,

hands that could have me without belonging to me,

ears that probably never heard me.

I only know the night has been sliced in half.

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