untitled.

I look at my notebook;
'love,'
written again and again,
spanning the universe of my unlined journal.
Its the thread that binds the pages.

I have never experienced it.
At least not with you,
not like this.
When I am an ancillary character
On a distant terrain,
In the backdrop of your story.
And you are a million fucking miles away.

‘Are you still interested in me?’
Silence;
An endless chasm
Shaded in pitch
my purgatory;
waiting for you to respond
Im in Hell’s Lobby
As the bellboy points me
Toward your room
And I can feel you in there
But you don’t open the door

And I,
Bags in hand
Pride in throat
Heart on sleeve
Am not stunned
Only stuck
In the thick of your neglect

And I want to say simply
‘It’s time for me to leave’
But with amazing complexity
It lingers on the tip of my lips.
The words get gummy
On the roof of my mouth
My tongue is taffy.
To your sweet-toothed grin
And nothing changes
Since flattery has given way to complacency

When I question
What all this means
You say you’re just playing
As if this was a role.
But I am not amused.
I play cards.
I play records.
I play myself
I never play at love.

I just jot the word down
and again the poetry comes
in bushels
like a busted grain silo
heaped on its side.