No I will not fall in love with you
I will not wake in nights and days thrumming the elastic pulse of your flesh
I will not make crusades to cry in the crux and crucible of your moist longing
I will not stammer at your bedside begging or taking
I will not break your heart
I will not make small prayers in rosary threads of vigil
I will not embarrass your family with the noises of my body
I will not bend, fold, mutilate or spindle the punch card of your soul
I will not lust crushed and broken on the stone beneath your window
I will not hide in shadows to see other men tapping to your doorway
I will not utter cries in ecstasy, fear or isolation
I will not stumble in your dark kitchen
I will not bribe your friends for secret knowledge
I will not watch you sleeping
I will not pander to your whimpering sighs
I will not be cast a drift in your aching moans to find the height and apex of that perfect storm
I will not give you gullible lies or fractured truths
I will not fall floating in the chasm of your eyes
I will not bring you tea

I will regret these things
Regret them forever.

I gave him the plate that I made--the clay that I
Smoothed wrong.
As the artist, I fired it like a master,
Painted it like a saint--but I got it wrong.
My biggest fan said
He could faint.
How disappointed was he--my type-writer-love
The white carnations of our wedding melted like snow
In the blasted coffee
In the aghasted coffee
That scorned it's very existence as much as he.
He who, give or take a few,
Blew many kisses my way--even so I fired that
Mischievous plate--and I gave it to him
And I made him disgusting coffee
As well
That day.