not again

I was hoping this would get better. I was hoping for some kind of help or improvement.

This went on for years.

Tonight, I gave up for the last time.

This isn’t some kind of prima donna histrionics.

This is just a final failure of trust.

This is a kind of death. I can’t trust him any more. It’s gone on too long.

And here’s the poem. It’s just history now.

But it’s a good poem. I like this poem. I can find some love in it. But, oh, god. Why do people have to give up on each other? Why is love so often considered irrelevant?

I HATE having to do this, but it’s on the plate.  

My life is getting a bit better.

I hope yours is too.

I like you a lot.

I think you’re a really neat person.

It worries me that some of your friends have turned into my enemies.

When I see you, visceral things kick in. They are like lightning.

Or maybe submerged thunder. But anyway, it’s rough.

There were places we went, and stuff we looked at,

And when you almost fell off the mountain, and scrabbled with your feet almost without noticing,

that was pretty cool.

And then there were the times we talked about cruelty

and how bad that is

and how one should always watch out for these things, and

try to cure them,

try to prop up your sick friends,

try to make them whole again.

So, is it all over now, baby blue?

All of that?

All of this life and kindness and love and convention and pain?

All of this ripping?

You showed me once, how to cut an onion.

This way, and that, and how to parse it properly.

You taught me how to brown vegetables in the cast iron frying pan

You taught me how to cook.

I cannot cut an onion without thinking about you.

What am I to do with this?

You stole chile from me, too.

You and your tequila concoctions.

You and your chocolate and chile; you’ve stolen it all,

and you haven’t left me much to work with

for putting it together again.

Yeah, you’re friendly

when you have time

when you’re not busy

You’re a nice person

no question about that.

No question about that.

But there’s still too much of my life

that is all about you

And how do I divorce myself from your primateur

without betraying you

You who have managed, perhaps inadvertently

to drive yourself into my gut

into my nut

into the part that grows again

when anything grows again

if anything grows again.

And yeah, sure it will

I will grow again

I don’t like to whine.

But I don’t want to lose you, either.

I’d like to keep at least a trace.

Something to think about in the bad mornings

Someone to remember when he was funny

When he looked at me like some kind of

beloved kid sister.

And said “We love you, Miep, but you’re really weird.”