Sometimes with adamancy

Sometimes with adamancy,

with repeated words and

stories again, I begin

to grow wary of myself.

Yes, watching, as if across

the room, my mouth move,

and from so far away

my voice is in my other

mouth, my mind, reciting

in routine. (worth it)

Not that you are less.

No, in fact, I am so newly

numb that I cannot say

what you are

for sure. I need senses

for that, those, yes, gone

for now.

When they return, when I am

in myself, I think (know certainly)

I will be fond of you. I see this

even from all the distance.

For now that is where I

hear you. Talking to me

from far away.

What I catch makes me think

of perfect contentment

in the silence of walks in

parks long dark and

closed.

We speak candidly of love as

if we read from the same

book (because we did). And

I am weary of that’s been wasted

when I knew nothing of your

existence.

I hope that the moment

when I know these strolls

and embraces will never

be placed in

cans on curb sides, because

I’ve had too many rough drafts

of love. None read right.

None read me right.

So I say with one mouth

or another,

“don’t get this wrong.”

“Don’t get this wrong.”

That is advice just for me.