Sucrose and Splenda
Here I burn and toss
and turn
planted with a person I do not love.
would she hate me if she knew that all along I was
thinking of you
in your jean skirt and white blouse at the barbeque,
teaching me the mysteries of the world in a Mazda?
I know not what is in her ventricles
a heart I cannot read
like the
chart in the optometrists office.
the problem is right next to me
and yet my mind is somehow too distant to see
the burning bush upon my porcelein mountain
the miasma of hope
an ideal of mystery and brown eyes and kissing in the shadows.
Somehow we are sucrose and splenda,
racial hues enclosed in pink and blue packets;
unused atop the corner table in a small-town diner.
I cannot smell your scent anymore,
or feel your hair upon my fingers.
or recall the kiss you gave me when I had to go.
So when I left,
I planted myself in some illusion of the Elysian fields
and for a while I was happy, and I did
grow.
It has been two years,
and now the earth is scorched and salted.
ravaged by some
savage machine.
I sing of broken cogs and rusty springs
I sing of grit.
I emote the pheremone orchestra and the dopamine express,
clouds of nostalgic pollen swimming through the air to hit and miss their targets...
And no matter where I plant myself or who my flowerbedfellow is
I know I'll never find a dhalia or rose to match you,
my starry-eyed princess,
my peony
Never forget the good we sought to do.
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