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A Struggle Towards Carelessness

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We drive through our city and marvel 
that it is ours. Everything is unlimited promise. 

There is no way to distinguish faith from hope: both
equally wasteful as far as emotions go. As if
any emotion isn't wasteful. Being human is
fucking terrible. If I was born a tree I would not
know how to miss other trees in the forest. I hope
to hear from you but I don't. I hope to feel nothing 
in exchange for nothing but instead I fill up.

I don't want more of you. I want all of you.
You look pained when you come. Women are taught
the orgasm attaches her to him and yet.
I hope to feel anything but feel very little.

Then there must be something wrong. 

No. Everything is okay. I am approaching carelessness,
that large horizon of neutrality. 

We kissed and your stubble 
rubbed my face raw. I care less and less about when this will 
reoccur. If I cry it is once, still laughing and drunk on Texas beer, 
in Caroline's car, the sun only beginning to set. 
I smoke cigarettes on the porch with the men. I do not care
for feeling. 

We will meet again; this city is 
small and overgrown. I will ask for your name; I have forgotten
you except your face and the angle in which you slept. 

Someday, I am certain, I will learn
the act of remembering: to form that into love.

Comments (2)

This comment was minimized by the moderator on the site

Stellar work. There's a sad resignation in much of your writing, followed by bursts of self-affirming resilience. It makes for good conflict.

This comment was minimized by the moderator on the site

Thank you Brandon. I appreciate that feedback.

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