~

robin caught me on the rebound.

i'm not sure if she hates me now, or merely 

despises me, either way, no good,

but what could i do? i don't like rum and coke

and she tasted like make-up. 

now annie and i are an item. by this time

next month, or the month after, 

or maybe by christmas, she will hate me

or despise me. it isn't that she 

tastes of make-up, she is make-up free,

and it isn't the rum and coke, 

she prefers wine. i like wine.

it's something else, namely, i don't love her

and i can't or won't say those words

to her after she says them to me. 

she thinks i'm something i'm not, 

that, in the proverbial nutshell, 

is the cause of the slime trail of hatred

i leave behind. i look intriguing

and sultry and cool, but looks deceive.

i'm a pill too large to swallow,

and given enough time, it comes out.

only julie still likes me, which

is no small thing, as she is very dear to me.

terri doesn't hate me, she simply

moved on after finding my nature

and hers were so different. 

there were no harsh words, on the contrary,

she said lovely things to me, by letter,

which i tore up and binned immediately.

annie, she is a little complicated.

she wants a lot from me. some of which

i can give her, some i cannot.

it isn't going to work, and, seriously,

i would like to do the right thing by her, 

which is to end it now, but then come

the sad, vulnerable looks, even tears,

and the words i need to say, i cannot say,

and so another night comes and goes.

~

i know i come back to this

every single time, but rose, my north 

country girl, and i, we were . . . it was

different. it was a level of intimacy

i hadn't known possible, and i think

she felt the same way. everything

was accepted and acceptable 

between us, the pleasantness

of each other's company was enough.

that we never had a chance

for physical intimacy, beyond a kiss, 

was okay, was fine, because somehow

we knew it would be perfect.

after an experience like that,

i don't see how i can love anyone else. ever. 

i probably will, i hope i will, but in a way,

i know i won't. not like rose.

my friend and i have talked of this,

that a love such as this, living

only as potential, can live perfectly,

and that is a good and happy thing.

rose will always be my perfect love,

and maybe i am hers. i hope so.

~

if this were a tale told by jane austen,

she would find a way to bring my rose

and me together, after all, she brought

darcy and miss elizabeth together, 

and they were both pills too large to swallow.

my rose is no pill. jane would have to solve 

only the problem of me. we will never know

if the darcys lived happily ever after,

but they had a shot at it. along the same lines,

colonel brandon caught marianne

on the rebound, and it looked like love,

and sounded and tasted and felt like love,

but it was something lesser, some akin

to accepting second best. no way

could brandon's poetry recitations

compare with willoughby's pure,

imperfect, passionate, lustful love.

second best is not what i want,

and will not accept. i don't want

a fairy tale ending, i want no doubt,

a love without doubt, total acceptance,

and deep as forever, which is a line

miss austen, or amy winehouse

for that matter, would never have used.

~

annie would be my brandon. i can't do it.

meanwhile, i have my perfect love

tied up in bow and put away it a top drawer.

i can take it out, release the ribbon,

open the box and breath in my deep as forever love,

then close the box, retie the ribbon,

put it back in the top drawer and go on.

on a different note, i have my base interests

to fulfill. in that regard, being unfulfilled

with annie, sadly, i fantasize, and

get this—no i can't say it, i can't write the words,

it's too embarrassing. i'll say she is

as unlikely a candidate for my imaginings

as imaginable. i'll say she has something

that terri has, she has the dolphin quality, 

and really, that does me in every time; 

or, it did the one time i experienced it. 

i imagine, and sigh, and know that life

is imperfect, and my self-indulgence

is what it is—self-indulgence, and my typing

is self-indulgent. four hours ago i learned

my friend has cancer. naturally, i write about me. 

~

annie is very domestic. she likes

to make soup. she likes to nest.

but here's the thing—terri, who 

was da bomb, to quote mr. stewart, 

was really and truly the sweetest,

dearest, most thoughtful person,

bestowing such a depth of passion

and kindliness upon me that i am left

breathless, even now, even after she bolted.

annie's domesticity seems artificial.

i think she is role-playing. 

terri was terri, at ease with herself.

~

this is going on too long. i'm avoiding

the last lines because the point

i intend to make is not pleasant.

it is about my unintentional proclivity

for disappointing people.

what can i say beyond what i've said,

i'm a pill too large to swallow

for all but the one person, rose, i can't have.

annie will know it soon enough.

~