I talked about you today.
I talked about you, spectator-distant
like a failed actress, useless at memorising lines.
I talked about you
which means that I am fine.
This is what we do.
When we admit that something is wrong we
also lay claim to the right that we’re fine.
I’m dealing with it, we say. The fact that
I’m talking about it means I’m fine.
Well, I’m even writing a poem about you so
I am even more fine than that.
I think that you and I will be fine forever.
Just a thin thought now, I insist.
How could you thicken again?
Rust over my mind like jam in an open jar?
If you are a cupboard I never close,
I’ll never see you anymore.
I’m clever like that.
I hide you on my forehead,
Look! I’m dealing! I’m healing!
I’m honest about this spot, that stripe.
You’re so close I can’t see you.
I talked about you yesterday.
Just to insist that I’m over you
the second she left,
I picked up the phone
the only flaw about
getting over you
is that it
reminds me that
when it comes to you,
I have you memorised;
I only pretend to forget my lines.