It's 2:30 am and the waning moon is
shining through pink curtains and I
am wondering if I am in love.
In this moment I have forgotten
am not a good candidate to be in love.
This has nothing to do with me,
but more to do with the fact
that these wonderings are not
really attached to anyone.
People say that love is
tearing your own heart out and giving it,
whole to someone else
and they say that
happiness is better than morphine
for dulling the pain.
I do not know if anyone
actually says this.
To be truthful,
I have never heard anyone say this.
By that definition I am in
love with the world, because
I am tearing my own heart
out and leaving it
on park benches and sidewalks
between the pages of library books
and under my bed
But there is not enough
morphine or happiness
and it hurts like hell and
I am bleeding all over the floor.
And I miss you. But this poem was not meant to be about you.
The birds have gotten a piece of it
and they are tearing it into smaller
pieces, leaving it on the tops of trees and parked cars.
A piece of it was brought in by a cat
it was left on your pillow.
You don't have a cat.
The blood is leaking through and
staining your pillowcase and
the blood is spilling spilling out and
staining my floor and
I am not in love.
Not with you,
not with anyone,
not even with the world.