last night, the moon was full
and the bridges were lit. you
were out scavenging, as usual,
under bridges and beneath the moon.
you found things, picture frames,
glass marbles, broken dolls. you
are not beautiful, but you think
you are and demand my response.
the architecture of your speech
is faulty, lacking in context.
you bring me things I need
and offer to cook food for me.
I have lost the ability to deny
you your wishes. you are not
beautiful, but you make me think
you are. I think about buying
food for you. you ask me for
baltic amber filled with insects.
the moon is indeed full.
the bridges are lit and people
are using the walkways in large numbers.
I went out to find things
to impress you with, scraps of speech,
old photographs, rusty coins. you
tell me I am lost, you tell
me to bring you flowers and leave.
I will not cry in your presence.
it is true. you are not beautiful,
but I will not tell you this.
neither will I tell you that
I love you and that I knew
I would find you. the architecture
of your leaving is complicated.
you have designed many bridges
but will not build them.
you ask me for jewelry and
I deny you jewelry. you ask me
for food and I deny you food.
I knew that you would leave me,
and I did not regret it.
the moon was full last night
and I watched you walking,
scavenging, asking me to cry for you.
you are not beautiful, but the
bridges are lit, the moon
is full and the night is very long.
I will not find things for you.