wake up, rod

once taught myself about stability and sex once what is dissolves into what once was and I'm left standing in that spot where once you said, "why be friends with exes if it's over?" over brunch and I looked at you, mouth half-opened, mouthing over and over those words that seemed so over-pronounced and under-considered; over seemed too large a place to ever place us under, even if all was ripped apart by blue lightning, I think your eyes, blue and even as they are, steady as they are, would be hard to look away from even if the stars burned out and left us stitching ourselves up even-handed as our shattered hearts allow, what could I teach myself once it was over; when even time calls love a liar?

love, but I hate all the words for it. Like recollection, you hit me-- like you're lightning and I am just a cable satellite dish wondering, "How  can something that'd stop your heart  come out like The Notebook ?" But if I know anything it's that I hate to be cute, so I'll ask a real question now: is it that  I can't remember love or how to  love a memory? I get to bumbling because a lot  of people have told me a lot of things  about love and poetry and love poetry. Yawn, I know. Are you still reading,  G? See, this one time  L said poetry came too easy to me; obviously, it was my life I needed  to fix, not my language. Someone else said simply, "don't." Was that me? Oh, and everyone knows what H wrote: words  are elegy to what they signify. Isn't that a tad too TV for you? For us? Unless he was talking  purely in the scientific sense of the minute interstice between a reality outside  my ...