I wish people would stop
assuming we’re together,
and saying what a great couple
we’d make. at first
I liked it; I thought surely now
you’ll see how we’re perfect
for each other, how obvious it is
to everyone that we should date.
but now that you’ve told me
that you’re not feeling it,
that there’s no future
for us in that way,
all this commentary
from the peanut gallery
is just rubbing salt
in my wounds.

yes, I know. tonight’s
complimentary bum
was clearly trying to soften us up
in the hopes of getting that elusive
pocket of change.
but even a stopped clock
is right
twice a day. it’s too bad.
our glorious possibility
could be written in the sky
in letters of fire
eighteen feet tall,
and you’d still claim
not to see it.

Published by

R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

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