We sat next to each other
And yet so far apart
I took long slow sips at my pineapple juice
And you watched television half-mindedly
I studied your face carefully
When the television dizzied you,
You’d write songs about other girls
The girls you met in subway trains overseas
You’d practice playing guitar
The elegant guitar my father bought you
You’d pace on the wet floor in my winter socks
The ones I inherited from my granddad and adore dearly
You give your car tires more affection than you do me
And yet we carry on like we don’t see what’s wrong
We keep on breaking one another’s’ hearts
In the empty promises that it might get better
And all we end up doing is chain-smoking
And writing each other hatemail and stuffing it in the sofa
it’s just like me to go on a date and then get mugged
about much of anything. No more about
anyone else than ourselves. Perhaps
not even of death, except that it’s bound
to happen. To you, yes; to me, us: the lot
of humankind, given how humankind sees it
from this near side. So what.
So nothing that we here and now
can perfectly know. Save, though the lens
our eyes raise, the old here and now.
The this, the already-going that moves us.
The red-shift we’re constantly part of.
And why not? Between what we were, and
are going to be, is who and how we best love.