And then you
start to
wish the distance was
physical.

You complain of the softer
world's lack
of the definitions you
have become accustomed to
in your field of clear lines,
where notation is not
an abstraction and knowledge
may be clearly told.

I suppress a smile, knowing that
you have taught me
the lion's share of those
things that can never be said.

I have worn
you as my livery, you
as my prison jumpsuit, as
my cloak of darkness wrapped
around me when light
meant burning and I
preferred to stab myself
into my hiding place.

I have worn
you for so long I have
forgotten what it means
for you to creep
up on me, for you
to ambush me as I bask
in the light, to
be suddenly present
when I did not
expect you.

Snapdragons are one of those
flowers that wilt in springtime, not
because there is
anything wrong, it's just
that their season is over.

I wonder whether
snapdragons ever fall
in love with the hawthorns,
though I really shouldn't
have to.

I know all too well the
feeling of having to love
someone perennially as
you both alternate dying,
for lack of rain,
for want of sun.

"He was only twenty."

My reaction shouldn't be

"lucky *******."