Our time

together had to end.

But that finite time meant the world to me.

You may never come back,

but I will always have your memory:

the ghost of you, running down the street with me at midnight;

our figures, making compromises under the gazebo that night;

your scent, and how that room will hereafter be "your room";

the books you left, the movies we watched, the songs that you'd play.

I can clean up your clothes,

and throw out your crap;

I can readjust my rearview mirror,

but I can't remove the memories.

No poem I write, no matter how shitty or eloquent

will express my feelings:

no longer hysteria, but a deep sadness, a knowledge that it won't

work out after we both have our degrees.

A realization that this is the end, beautiful friend.

I'll never look into your eyes again, not as I once did.

Your love was fleeting.

Mine was like continental terrain:

rising from nothing, sometimes falling, sometimes plateauing,

but nonetheless rising, until the summit,

where the only thing to do is

enjoy the fleeting view,

claim ownership, if only for a minute,

and make the long, hard trek down

out of your arms.

In Reply to I Wrote This for You, my favorite minimalist poet:

I'm straddling all three emotions like

the borders of countries.

I want

to be at "I love you", but I'll be alone.

"I hate you"

is only a mask, a veil

over my true feelings.

"I don't love you anymore"-

that's somewhere between

my present loss and

future liberation,

blocked by memories

and hopes

and unrequited pleas.

Why did you come into my life?

Why'd you have to leave?

Will you ever enter again?

Three more warring countries;

three more borders I straddle.

My brain is ready

to make the intelligent choice.

My heart urges me to make

that four hour drive to rejection.

Musings

Do I feel emotions stronger than others?

Is my elation more soaring

my depression deeper,

the walls of sorrow larger,

the isolation further?

Do I have a more intense love?

Am I more heartbroken after it ends?

Is this an insecurity, as the deep emotions I

tend to feel collect more on the darker side

of the affective spectrum, or is it

an artistic depth?

Moreover, am I the only one who

feels this way?

Does everyone think their emotions are deeper,

more valid that others'?

Are these musings a common part of maturing?

Or am I uncommon?

The hysteria following our goodbye;

The ecstasy of unexpected nocturnal adrenaline;

The deep ennui of late winter, after a season indoors,

does everyone feel this as I do?

Do they feel as if they live in a book,

a movie,

as if life plays before them like a story,

and they're a preconcieved character,

whose actions are planned and

scrutinized by a pannel of judges called

consciousness?

Or is it just me?

Innertia.

I am crippled with insecurity.

Living in the same house with someone has made me feel like

everything I do is quirky, like I have a failure to function properly

as a human.

I feel like a freak,

an idiot.

Like everything I think of has been thought of,

and doesn't matter much, anyway.

This isn't how we're supposed to feel.

Like you're a holding cell for greater things.

Like every day in your presence is a bit closer to

what hell feels like.

My own mind has become like a useless TV tchotchke.

Can anyone appreciate my musings?

Will I be a rarity my whole life?

Can I find someone who will muse with me?

Are my realizations postmature?

Has the whole world already figured out that

power does not feel so good when reached in increments,

and power thrust upon someone will overwhelm?

Has everyone but me known that the only ones who truly

feel the force of power are those without it?

Am I blind?

Am I

at all

tolerable?

Just leave my house.

I want my mind back.

Feelings: Solitary.

We spooned last night, and, in my state

I was able to feel what I hadn't let myself feel

in a while:

touch.

touch devoid of feeling,

touch straight from the nerves

to the libido,

not nearing the heart whatsoever

just touch.

I realized that I may have loved you

once

but anything I've felt for the last few months has been

less love and more dependence:

I depended on your friendship, your touch-

you have been the only one to touch me in months.

I thought I loved you, I was wrong.

This feeling was a deep friendship,

a plato of emotions.

We can touch, I realized, without a need for love:

we can kiss with empty lips; it will not spell the end of the world.

The only intimacy I feel for you is my desire to keep

your friendship,

this hollow love was the only way I knew to express it.

Until now.

Mon amie, je ne t'aime plus.

No comme ca.

Et rien ne pourrait me rendre plus heureux.