more than a word, but less than a poem:
i don’t know what to say
I feel intimacy fleeting, losing its sway
suffocated with silence and non-response
or responses misunderstood
whatever was our friendship supposed to be?
to me that pattern's plain:
the talk, the openness,
the intimacy indulged (or overindulged?),
and then the fading away.
and never anyone’s to blame.
the pattern’s not with you
-(or the one before)-
it was a template born with me,
the cost of my psychic disposition.
my eyes get plucked out daily
as the charge for my read on humanity,
as the price of my seething in-touchfulness.
yet forever it seems am i born again anew,
in a morning of sunrises to see again
that the world has once more repeated itself
and i’ve lost another friend.