the night, is thick
(to use the blunt end of
a cliché)
not with longing, but with
subtle ellipses…
subtle because you think
I don’t know the meaning of this –
this pragmatic yet temperamental,
ephemeral yet static,
blatantly peripheral way of
saying we’re in love.
The truth is,
it doesn’t mean much when
the words are made of paper cut
dolls blinking in the breeze,
or when they are spelled out in
translucent red paint hinting of
roadside massacres,
or quiet violence swept beneath
the romance of
palm-tree lined streets.
those are words. and words, dear,
I’m quite capable of stringing and
swinging all by myself.
those letters are bullets for you,
playmates for me.
I’m not about
to be deceived.
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