It has been 22 3 months
and I wake up incredulous with you again
(like you used to, actually),
but I’ll love you again
by lunch;
then they’ll be a tossing confusion
(this is stronger when I’m hungover),
but after a sandwich it’ll be greeting card love again:
tidy and ignorant;
then I’ll talk to you in my head,
or argue with, laugh at,
torment you (but you’re really tormenting me, aren’t you?),
then it’ll be that bottom-line love again;
and it’s testing and toing and froing,
and it ain’t achieving a lot,
and it ain’t poetic,
and it’s probably unhealthy
(probably medicalisable, too,
along with all their rest –
I mean,
look at the state of this).
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