Reflecting,
I sit dissecting
the poetry
of my past.

Organic
as it is,
it is like
a blast
of stale gas
from a painful
interval.

Familiar feelings
seems slightly
distorted
by the nightly
interludes
between
the two dudes,
me of now
and him
of then.

The work is good,
and I am slightly
plagued by jealousy
because my writing
is stalling,

but the falling
in love
and hurting because
that love drug
is not a sustainable addiction
was a terrible affliction,
which I do not wish
to revisit.