Okay,
what if
I mean
I’m sorry.
This comes down to something you don’t want to hear.
We’re disastrously incompatible.
I’m a complicated thing that fears feelings.
You’re a feeling thing that fears complications.
You set too much store by outdated theories,
your own theories composed of memories and guilt;
My own theories,
like little fantasies,
loathingly cultivated.
“I’ve got no claim on you now,” no, nor did I ever.
You’re an untouchable,
a live wire.
I’m a curious child with a hunch
that you will hurt me.
You’re a mockingbird that moves from nest to nest.
I’m a falcon that lives its life alone.