God, I am so tired of writing, of wanting you.

It is boring even me.

Did you know, it is tiring the way you stitch in and out of my dreams,

wending your way down the chalked alleyways of Israel, always a step ahead,

always calling my name, some game in which I am to pursue

because this way you are absolved and it falls to my doorstep.

I am tired of your calling my name, no matter how sweetly.

Why I am even tired of the wanting because the wanting

is an ache which soon turns to hurt and you know it…

It is a game we have played since childhood.

Love unrequited-requited. There is some bleed here.

In a dream it was so innocent. You just stopped.

I had been pursuing as you had wanted – chasing

I stopped, breathless and hot, my brow wet in from heat, cheeks-flushed.

Perhaps then, my mistake was telling about it – the dream –

because I knew you would withdraw, even if ever so slightly…

Do you smell it? It is the rank stench of fear.

How I hate it when I know that you know that I know that this

is really Bradford pears, cherry blossoms, the sweet and perfumed

juice of Anjou as it drips down my chin

as I take a measured bite as you watch, as you watch, as you watch.