She sits across from me,
her eyes now cold and distant.
I speak, imploring her,
“Where is this going, then?
You’re asking what of me?
Is your intent the end of us?”
Her lips stay pursed.
Her fingers press the table.
She looks at me, then leans
to rise, and finally walks away.
Her passions seethe within.
I know they do. Hot warmth is
ever there. As to what is meant,
she keeps me almost blind.
Perhaps some trinket’s caught her eye?
Across this room and down the lane,
that DJ guy on radio?
Could be. She does speak of him.
Or, maybe I’m at fault. I twist
myself in knots to see just how.
By retort, she snarks at me,
“You’ll hurt yourself. Just stop.”
What more is there to say?
Passions hot have taken hold.
There is no reining them.
No further truth exists.
To run amok is what portends.
Sparse regard have passions raw.
But seems in end, all worlds adjust.
What’s gone is simply gone.
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Friday, March 4th, 2022
Bridgman
MI
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