The first time I told myself

that I didn’t care about you anymore

I took a cleaver to the connective tissue

of our friendship,

sundered every tenuous attachment

with such ruthlessness

the actions of a madwoman, grieving

Did I think no one would see who I was?

Who I am?

Or was I afraid because you did see,

so certain of rejection

that I broke everything first

before you could break me

before I could be broken?

The Trouble with Wanting

The trouble with wanting is I want you

but you are a mystery

beyond my comprehending,

summons of sweet-scented blooms

the bumblebee may never see nor taste.

Blindly I follow after crumbs

thoughtless cast upon the ground before me

poor proxies they are

for that in which my soul takes delights-

and so I blunder on,

and hope one day to spy

the humblest vision of that beyond knowing

to which my heart holds fast.