"or a tardigrade from purgatory,

or a dove from heaven"


she sat right across the table with a cup of tea on hand

i had a latte. later we would have beer, later we would ****

will we get married

will she cheat on me with some waxen six foot ****

will it lead me to happiness, and despair

all that i've learned about love runs around my thoughts

by the meadow of infatuation is a tree where we hang ourselves
when we don't get what we want

paul mccartney did not sing to shakespeare when he wrote his love letters to anne someone

condoms still cost a dollar per pack even if a pregnant woman presents her measly coupons

and it's only wonderful in stories

only wonderful in imagination

only wonderful

after she has gone

gone away to where she belongs

angels belong in heaven, where they sing the songs of grace

men belong in purgatory, where they wait for heaven

love belongs in hell, frozen to the ***, where it cannot doom anyone

what am i even doing with you

am i supposed to love you

am i supposed to love

tea belongs in shrines, not dates

coffee belongs in breakfast, not dates

beer belongs to parties, you get the point

i am doomed, i'm to love someone

and then it would be fine, we would be ok

and i would freeze, knowing the lessons of love, but unable to let the world decide for you

if it would ruin it

if it would go well

if it lets me decide instead

boy, am i doomed

am i dumb

am i freezing

one shouldn't be aware of love, they'd be stuck

in its writhing, biting wrath

or it's stagnant, unbearable ennui

or it's cold, unforgiving inevitable

how did those bleeding heart supermarket poets find time to **** models and secretaries and cocktail drinkers and get married and ruin their marriages with more cocktail drinkers and marriages

when the idea of love freezes me in place

trying to fathom it

ugh

my date is so bored

and i just want to run

run away

but i am afraid bukowski was right

and you don't run from dogs