The Defeatist Speaks of Endings
You are a maybe bordering on probably not.
You offer me something beautiful
a map of meticulous origami?
a fist flowering into a hand?
and I refuse you.
Love. It is my anger of language at words,
of having to be read
from endless angles;
of the spaces between them;
of the countless ways of knowing you.
You think your gift is
a sentence, beautifully composed
a puzzle bound by rules;
a death sentence of comprehension.
I think your warm outstretched hand
is a map so faded
it is a hand once again.