How do people manage to reach
fiftieth anniversary of their
only marriage,
without killing each other
or divorcing again and over,
fifty times a year?
I am yet to go more than a week
with my yet again estranged wife.
Even confused we are both
unsure what to call each other
- the current or the ex.
Longing seems to take a turn
only after a distance of more than
two heart-miles afar/ apart
before the mind manages to scrape together
a reason, a justification
- why are we not able to stand one another
even though we can't seem to not love/ unlove
each other
Perhaps clarity has long given up on us as well
Call it immaturity or incompatibility
or just a poem gone awry
in trying to marry a song (gone) hoarse
Time to end at least the poem
and spare all involved
embarassment and pain
Even if it seems
at times
poetic
at time
plain sick
コメント