Your intensity is what first drew me to you.
The way one look from you made me quiver
in all the right places.

Your darkness always overpowered my light.

I have always been able to survive on a minimum
of affection–I just need to see the slightest
intention and then I fall hard, with maximum
velocity. When you fall that hard, that fast,
the force of your impact is bound to be devastating.

I was wrong. Now immobile.

My heartbreak is vast,
and I am the cause of it.

I philosophize a grand eruption:
drinks thrown, tables overturned,
your ego crushed,
me exiting triumphant.

But I lack the courage to execute it.

I am unable to find your equivalent.

You have moved on and I remain.

Replacing an infatuation has never been an obstacle before now.

You used to whisper
eloquence into my ear
and now I will not
let you get close
enough to have access.

The gallery is slightly louder than silent.

A woman a white lace fedora narrates the paintings
in Italian to her sister who wears a camel colored
sweater with garish roses covering the right shoulder.

I should have been Italian:
then my inner fire would be appropriate.