I would write poetry and prose, words of love and comfort
if I thought that it would help
I would speak in volumes, verbs and tenses
dissecting, psychoanalyzing, explaining and extrapolating
the meanings of what
I feel for you
what I know to be true
if I thought it would help
but nothing seems to help anymore, and I name myself Cassandra,
no Helen here.
I see the ending of this Troy
(don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.)
I whisper and I speak and I cry, I try try try
but it seems I will remain
so fall silent and wait, precipice-balanced, trembling
for the end.