i'm tripping over shoelaces
and falling over beating hearts
while you are watching
with amused, worried eyes.
my fingers turn to ice
and i manage to mumble
"i like your hair" before
the world ends and
my shoelaces are strangling me.

I deleted your number for the last time
on the sand at Barceloneta beach.
there is something in the word
Catalunya
that makes me want to wear colors
and forget you.

i just want to sleep and drink my red wine with coca cola like a Basque, pretending to be eating a wiśnia rather than a czereśnia; and i'm tired i'm just tired, so tired i can't weep for the reasons i could make into ten commandments.*

what true dicta are there,
in all honesty,
other than the ones
said but never thought?
what but the unchallenged
that keep challenging
to a consistent cry of defeat
easily quenched?
all i apparently said was
neither yes, nor no,
but i said i, and that was enough
for either yes or no to take the
toll as vaguely wearisome of me,
if anything at all.