"No matter where you are," I wrote, "you sit

brightly imposed on the indefinite

nebular storm of my vast inner-lid."

Love was once a wish to close a distance

between opposite corners of a dance

party: Bathroom light, face in brief bloom,

I'd stared a dotted line across the room;

a look like love-letter, its poignance tied

to distance (you lose the thrill supplied by

teeter-totters when sitting side-by-side).

Burned, sure; but does heat or closeness bear blame?

Consider the campfire that holds your eye:

Wall to canyon wall, valleys night undid

might be redone by distancing from flame.

Guilty solicitousness, an appeal

to the feelings plied by popular song, 

born of her/your dejection sighting me

as she/you stepped outside with that old man,

her/your head bowed, had jiggered a sort of

chivalrous autopilot, whereas my

actual feelings had been staring me 

in the face all along. Let me, at least,

explain: It was her at the party but 

it was you too; excuse my confusion

(background music for a grumbled rebuff). 

Telling you/her I loved her/you, bordered

on abuse but, then again, she/you was/

were you/her and I was never myself.

We can have – could've had – a good life here,

a great life; children, best behaved, sharing

that gleeful conspiracy they'll never

outgrow but which we presciently forgave.

It’s sad to go. Sad to stay. Sad to stop

wanting those things we can't have anymore,

remiss on icy parquet... The creaking

waits in all directions; must we ball fists

and call it compromise? (Less forgotten

than never quite retained, while amassed like 

sea glass from a remote shoal we’ll never

find again, much less stroll) surprise birthdays

   extend the cold tip of a pizza slice

   when there’s nothing left to complain about.