Deep in the middle
of the Irish midlands,
my essence is all over.

You’d put one foot inside
and say I haven’t changed—
hoarding sentimental knick-knacks,
all valueless, all lovely,
all me.

You’d put one foot inside,
and say I haven’t changed—
house like a heart: So cozy, so warm,
all irrelevant, all lonely,
all me.

You ground the **** out of me.

I expected a
flawless dive,
My Olympic-gold Diver.
So I put you 32.8 feet  
off the ground—
Above the chlorine glare,
  levelled with my expectations.
Just for you to ******* slip—
hard and graceless.
Right in the last minute.

Could it be tunnel vision?
—I wonder, in the park
as I see
they are running when;
He kisses the hand
he’s already holding.
I could melt.
Way better than fiction—
Real life romance.

Could it be tunnel vision though?
—I wonder again, on the bus,
as I see
she’s shifting her foot nervously—
and in a rare sight:
A sudden feet-hug,
his reaching hers,
containing and calming.

Could it be tunnel vision?
Or just a sweet foreshadowing?

I saw you on a picture.
—And for a split moment,
I didn’t recognise my brain.
I programmed it differently.
For that specific task,
it’s usually set
to unpair itself
from my higher conscious self.

My standard policy is:
No empathy your way.

But today…
I could tell.
You seemed unwell.

Despite the damages done,
under your affection dictatorship
I didn’t rejoice.
I actually cared.

No trace of a mean smirk.
I really wished you the best.

Hope it reaches you,
written all over your face,
Next time I catch a glimpse
In some picture of a friend.