i wrote the book

i wrote the book
the trite how-to.
how to love,
without hope of loving
(back,
when we were in her bedroom
and you peeked your eyes
from under your strands)
and the months numbered longer.
and s**t,
i'm a s**t.
because i wrote the book
where she had nothing left to lose.
except the strange,
gilded flower
still salvageable
find in me
something
remotely lovable?
because i would stay.
i swear i would stay.
i promise
i'm good enough
i could sometimes be
mean enough?
even if we throw away our bodies
on less than love.

Reviews

[hawker]

Stop being so good at writing poetry. It's making me jealous!