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

in us

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.



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