Not one of my lovers Were ever much like me or even close, But for that I should be grateful. I should probably even roll over and play dead.
Almost all those I loved, you see, were guilty In some small respect of things I’d never believe, Things I couldn’t imagine that I’d ever tolerate. Now that they are gone, I’ve reflected, find I was mistaken…
I suppose it’s just that I’ve discovered and suffered for How I miss them, how hard it’s been to replace them, How feeble is my existence, growing old without their faces, Without those native traces, voices, and embraces to keep me.
Current draft: 5/19/2010 Created on 5/15/2010 8:31 PM
This esoteric conceit clumsily conceived by