convince me i am wrong; that you want to hear the intimate details that torment me – things i think you don’t want to know – the nightmares that circle like sharks my beach scene.
when i describe myself as lonely, don’t enumerate the friends that make this feeling impossible, or insist i give up on doubting because it’s silly, and proves i will never enter heaven, or shop its finer stores.
it is better i say nothing – you have made it clear by your positioning – my burdens are my burdens, that you and i are not citizens enough to each other for our time together to be anything more than temporary.
so there you are witnessing me like a failure of mirror and i imitate a sharp thing deep in your chest and the blood between us fills puddles in which our emotions swim – coating themselves with despair.
if i wanted to move from this place by the sadness shore how would I do so? would I go it alone sans playmates – by myself in the sandbox – filling the pail, turning it over, emptying it, and then filling it again?
and pleasure, why so ephemeral? how do children march so faithfully into adulthood, trudging along, holding lunch boxes, towards the dream time, and expect it all to turn out beautiful?