I thought I had a temperature

But it may be my aneurysm coming back.

I give it a name.

You give it a name.

It all settles like roast beef, though,

Like clouds rolling by

or a half fifth of vodka.

 

All just little sonnets for our nerves.

Potato, tomato, Porchuga, Taluca.

 

Today I watched the wind blow

the snow around the road.

 

Worse than crying

Is not being able to.

 

Like the poem says

"I know how the flowers felt".

And it all still prods.

And it all still pelts.

 

I'm no flower though.

 

What you admit

compared to what you feel:

 

Being told it's okay

to have emotions.

 

So can I rip your heart out

and shove it down your throat?

 

No.

 

No?

 

You once told me: "It wasn't the sex, it was the way you looked at me."

Offended I responded: "It was the way you looked."

 

It was the breathing

and the twitching

and the heaving

and my ears being tickled with your moans.

I swore I wouldn't apologize

but I did.

 

Perhaps it became a habit

and I just quit saying why.

 

The song "Love has no Pride"

Should be changed

Hurt has no pride

 

And minutes become shrapnel

when it catches up with you

 

That is when I throw my feelings

Up against the wall

And watch them bounce off of me,

Then land on the floor

Like a jar of mayonaise

At the grocery store

That hasn't been picked up yet.

 

It would only matter to you.

 

Me too, but not in the same way

 

Sorry