itis easier to be angry
with her
than to be honest
with myself.
but, still, all she ever had
is that god damned plucking.
and all i ever really got
was a little bit of fucking.
but, that's too
grotesque a word;
that breaks it down
to its most primitive form.
isn't that all
it really ever was,
though?
primitive?
tongues hanging out of mouths,
intermingling of genetalia,
a few grunts here,
and a few moans there.
what of the offspring
that never sprung?
i'm sure she'd say something
about that.
something like...
something like...
well, whatever it is
that she might
say,
the fact of the matter
is
that
neither one of us could
stay.
where ever our respective
rivers might have flown
through one another
matters not anymore.
it's cold there now.
it's dry there now.
it's dead there now.
perhaps
it's easier than
i thought
to be honest with myself.
but, it's still easier to be angry.
with her someone's else.
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