I never love, you know? Except for that other time, and the time before. But here is a new poem. Again. You couldn’t stay, you didn’t like my kisses. Too many, too soon, I read. Your eyes seemed bored when I talked, your body
distant when we slept. Once I sat awake all night nourishing impertinent
hope I gathered from the sound of your laugh and the grip of your hand.
I was always confused near you. One morning, after protesting with the
please-leave-me-mask I used to break the superficiality that kept us close,
your legs woke up holding mine. I never love, you know? And though I have not seen you since, I know you knew my love before I left. I heard you speak of other hearts like mine, a tattooed hip, a letter after 20 years, you cried
about the letter and I had hope again. Impertinent hope I nourish. The void
your desire left sits with me. It just won’t happen, but people who never love don’t really care about those things.