Better to know what you want, I am told.

So it is we find the elephant in the room.

We tread so gently – those tusks too sharp.

You tell me, you can hardly see –

view obscured, all language lost.

Write it then here: Do you ever see my love?

Why is it that the past inserts itself into the Now –

that place it never did belong.

It is a summer Sunday one of renege; of history undone.

Confessions unconfessed.

A twist, a turn here or there – what difference does it make.

Who is to say what is true and what is not.

We bear witness ourselves, disregarding the observations, hurts of others.

You wake in the light, see yourself reflected back. You okay with that.

Figure if you are, then I ought be too.

That those tears were so unnecessary.

That my crying after some half-witted tart that you picked up at the day-old section of the market –

this is no consequence – certainly anyway, not my business.

I turn my back on the then.

Focus on the now.

Forgive but don’t forget.

I build in that spacer – an nth of a degree, a tiny piece of letterpress lead –

this much keeps me safe.

Enough of a distance, yet still allows for love.

Wholly I have been yours. Wholly I remain.

Somewhere back then, back there, you know the favor not always returned.

That you dipped into some valley –

Found a lover in a port – some safe harbor or refuge –

It is I from whom you wish to escape.

You tell me No.

That this never was the case.

This is how the past you rewrite –

A piece here, a piece there.

What difference does it make.

Those girls never meant a thing to you – mere scraps to feed the ego.

They hit the register of cheap validation –

You won’t look at how it cheapened us too; cheapened me, cheapened you.

I was certain this time that we had reached some agreement:

that at last we knew what had happened – a mutual agreement

This was that, That was this. Case closed.

That was enough for me. A simple honesty, that’s all.

In one morning you undo bleak years of hurt, of work it took to get to the now.

One morning and the yarn you unravel;

Tell me what it is I am doing, what it is you never did.

Histrionics, that is all. I picked a name from a hat –

Chose some nothing bitch at random – you never thought about those girls much,

and when you did it was a fleeting thought about fucking,

and why should I care about that? It meant nothing to you, you tell me.

These are lies of little consequence.

Deception and guilt – no need of that here.

There never was any choice, you say.

You tell me I was a nervous breakdown manic depressive,

spinning fantastical affairs, made of whole cloth;

I broke my own heart.

You, you never had a part in this undoing.

Tell me then – are you proud of yourself?

Did the war make you feel any better –

or do you just feel less loved; have you set yourself up –

Now some other reason for infidelity. You build it in, stitch it up.

An excuse you carry in a leather portfolio – an ugliness disguised.

Don’t’ worry about it, love.

I already know it’s my own fault.

That I drove you too it; that I remain the quick quick motor behind any minor or major infidelity.

That these flirtations and etc – why I leave you no choice,

after all, what a bad girl I have been! Sin, sin, sin.

You sell it, trade it, stock it – this time, I’m not buying.