There were no last words
between us-
but you whispered "I love you."
Not acknowledging-
instead feigning prior pains
(acute metaphysical backache or similar;
poignantly posed silence construing that
I'd been wounded),
I told you goodbye.

Of course, it was a train
and a girl scenario-
her off-white handkerchief trailing
out the window, itself
saying an extra goodbye
(saying surrender).
I punched the dirt after,
because love
felt false- especially
coming from me, an unkempt
young actor.

You're a newly colored
kaleidoscopic green,
an old film repainted
(it was still relevant;
strong cast- a beautiful female lead
needing submission, to be tamed).
I am solipsistic graphite smudges
forming a halo
around the ordinary providence
of bold characters
erased from an inelegant diner napkin-
I wrote I love you I wrote I love you I wrote I love you.