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.