You feel the most nothingness
because of the girl you love the most.
You die in the grass with her arm
on your back and you say to yourself,
“This is the culmination of a lifetime’s
worth of work, and now I will die
for her, the it and the all, of everything.”
And then she goes, having received them,
and you lay there in the grass, dead and given.
You had thirty-three precious loves
and you gave them
every fucking one of them, Jesus Christ,
and nothing remains for the dark-haired beauties
of the world.
I can see her now taking it back to her friends
and saying, “I got them from the fool
and I will never give them back.
He’s done for now for sure.”
But you keep kicking because you’re
not a quitter.
Given, you stay in the world,
hoping that you’re like
green fields that refill
every year to bless the world
with more small joyous things.
(From May 2015)