It doesn't matter anymore
It doesn't pull at him
It doesn't flatten him
It doesn't even warm his skin just below the surface

He remembers betting the farm
again and
losing
again

He remembers conjuring her image
with another inside her

intense passion
blind lust
temporary bliss
braided into
one
          juxtaposed
by his familiar
personal hell furnished
with a front row
seat to her
exploration of hedonism

ironically, he is busy
exploring asceticism - although
it is with vague
volition, as in
he does not set
an intention thus,
but finds that
his being naturally
collects there
sometimes

Love as an
intoxicant
Love as
ignorance
Love as
withdrawal

In the wake
of attachment
his ribcage breaks
open like grand
french doors into
which the entire
sea pours

The weight of all
that water
on his heart
showing him
the way