neurotic paradoxes

bianx

it has been a week, see.
i did smell you. inhaled your breath
when i was asleep. yes, i heard your
voice even when the waves crashed
through reefs and rocks. and yes,
i can only create poems with you in it.

sadness, that.

and it has been a long week, see.
there is still nothing in it for me but
you and a memory. there was an excuse
for me to kiss you when half-drunk dares
go rampant. it has always been like that,
that. and still, you are nothing to me but

...that unprofitable dream.

sadness, this.

the week is over, but i still remember
how a wayward arm could find its way
around mine; underneath a table with
empty tanduay bottles on it, two hands
mingle. separate worlds, the hands and
the people who own them. yet tonight,

i sleep. and i no longer dwell on
unprofitable dreams
but of what-could-have-beens.

(see, i like it
when you say you can't.
it is in pain like this
that i can create a
'you'
in 'me')

sadness. that.