pleasantries

Here, have my apologetic forgiveness, as I have not yet

forgiven myself, for having given myself

to you and many others. I suppose

there’s something pleasant in your foul miasma

emanating from whatever bottled esters are meant to sell -

some sort of lustful adolescence. I suppose

there’s something pleasant in your familiar, 

suffocating, thirty-six plus two degree

body draped heavily over my still, brooding self (eyes to ceiling)

but also the socks that are threatening

to fall off my tired feet over the edge of this bed. 

I’m taking care to not give myself cold feet here,

with a stupid level of concentration, 

but don’t worry, I’m still listening, and pitying, as you

mumble murmurs and moans of sad, sad sadness.

There is, supposedly, something pleasant in forgiveness,

in leaving behind three years of boiled blood,

though now less viscous or vicious by some liquid, 

by some empathy. I suppose

there’s something I want to laugh about in the unexpected, the unwonted,

unwarranted unknown; the beneficial benefit of the doubtful doubt 

that I’ve given you; the unpleasant surprises 

that don’t surprise me so much anymore.