What if I don’t want to know
precisely why it ended, or how
for it’s easier
to pretend to know
easier to hate you
easier to always
leave the door unlocked
for your occasional
eventual
dreadful
succulently dangerous return.
What if it was better
to never diagnose
all the things that are wrong
the diagnosis is so final
so sheepishly clear
and you know I rather play.
And the longer it passes
the less angry I am
the more my hands beg
to tic tak the keyboard
and summon you
or put on my shoes
and run (in)to you.
What if I rather
avoid all the closures
offered by a god
or someone like her
who knows I miss you
and you
and you
Somehow I have all this room
and it would feel empty
barren, loose like a muscle
if I didn’t have the possibility
of you
and you
and you too.
t.a
Madrid, March 2015