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.
