“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he was saying,
“but our love has run its course.
You are a river and I am an ocean.
I thought the way your fingers hooked into mine
proved that forever was in our destiny,
but I see how desperate you are to escape.
(Am I your Alcatraz? Your prison sentence without parole?)
How my grasp has become a strangulation & when you tell your stories, I sigh.
I have heard them a thousand times.
You are not a poet –
you are a television set tuned to reruns.
(Same old story repeats again
I thought love was a word in our everyday vernacular,
but repetition becomes cliché.
And night after night, I drink bourbon while you’re out dancing with boys who won’t remember your name.”
I listened, my smile fading, my heart once swollen, now feeling like a bruise.
You look at me like you don’t know me,
but maybe you don’t.
We have been sleeping in separate beds
and you say I am a river, and you say you are an