what we want to
in our momentary mates.
Be it a good fuck, someone to talk to, someone to share fantasies with,
or merely the time.
We get so much meaning out of that, it hurts
to be left on a thin spider’s string,
tight-roping across the void of the unspoken.
FWB, they say too late.
Time has passed, and ambiguity couples up,
creating a new ménage a trios, playing with the mind
of the uncertain participant, the one who is left out of the…
Fucked. Not past tense.
“Friends” become suspicious and conniving.
If I don’t tell him this, perhaps he will
spend more time with me, tell me things, open up, be himself.
Why is he not himself before that?
What is holding him back-
Rephrase that. What is holding me back?
It’s his, but it becomes my burden.
Don’t tamper with damaged goods.
What good is that?
I restrain, refrain, refine what is said,
allow what isn’t said
To fester, pester, mutilate my sense of trust. In me.
I have yet to love.
But I love me.
Yet, I do not know
how to love myself and
another, that is a threesome that is difficult to orchestrate.
My self becomes angry
that I have neglected her,
that I forget what we had been angry about
long before the ambiguous string was cut
and we fall not into the unspoken void,
But into a flashing world of anger,
the mine field.
Never trust a ghost
the field screams. Don’t allow me to be forsaken
for the sake of a specter.
Ambiguity is more than two-faced, and takes away my
saving face. A fall from grace,
Another void –
a spiral of hell:
No love to be found.
I scream –
Ambiguity be damned!