Spending the last waning hours of daylight
sprawled out on the couch, you confess
you once told a lover
that you could only get off
by ripping off his head. At the time
this seemed like harmless fun, a way
to bring a little more danger to what
had admittedly turned into a bit
of a routine, but somehow
he had believed you, had tried
to convince you not
to fall in love with violence, to cherish
his embodiment, fully formed
and nearly functional. Well,
none of us are really
formed and functional, you said, so
maybe I'm just being honest, just
externalizing the metaphor. I know
you expect me to be amused
by this simple anecdote, to smile
and remark on how silly
you once were, but instead
I stroke my wisp
of a beard thoughtfully,
and after some time spent
tracing the shadows of our faces
on the windowpane, remark
that if you must always
make sure your lover
is somehow incomplete, at least
you could try to find
the common courtesy
to leave him a bandage
to wrap himself in come morning.
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