Not Nothing

Vowing that this would be the last time
is what kept me coming back
all these years
Taking myself to the edge 
of what I can bear
is what I was born to do

I didn't want to say it,
but you have changed me already
I had only been posing 
for a photograph
when I met you,

a list of ingredients
without a recipe

the single grape 
inside your boneless mouth

It wasn't much, but it wasn't nothing
I have stood barefoot in your bedroom
I have been alone inside of you
like a key that slides in the lock
but can't quite make it turn

It must be the tenor of your voice

It felt powerful and rare,
incendiary even,
but in the end
love is not a psychodrama

In the end, the only thing I could calibrate
was the undressed space between us  
So when we touched,
that is what I touched:
                your most sullen deficits,
     the messy shelves inside of you,
     those piles of unread novels 
     stacked on the floor
A small song plays on loop all night in the dark

Those delicate moments of verisimilitude could not outweigh
your monuments of impassivity, 
though they made for such
delicious resistances 

Sometimes there is nothing left to say
or nobody left
to say it

When I myself have failed 
to say things plainly,
it was my nature
and not my failure
       Anyway, it would not
have made me any happier

10 thoughts on “Not Nothing

  1. This was really good. It reminds me of this girl I met back when I used to dabble in photography…We had a bit of a fling…The heart isn’t nearly as smart as it wants us to believe.

  2. It is strange to listen to our hearts when our thoughts are reasoning and arguing with us, attempting to turn us from the stampeding herd that races toward the cliffs. Is it because our hearts are loving the thrill of power or is love so stubborn it cannot let go even in dangerous times. Our brains should wake and stop the headlong rush but somehow it often jumps in with too little too late. Your poem is delicious and I keep returning to nibble on all parts. Thanks for sharing.

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