Poets Anonymous Ink: Dialogue (or An Ocean Said to a River)

“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

again

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

ocean.