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 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.