You think I don’t know
when love is exhausted and spent
and there is nothing left except
the habits that have made us
who we are, told and retold
too often to be believed anymore.
Yet here we are the two of us,
alone, thoroughly polite and
sensible most of the time, but hiding
the gnawing wish for love unfulfilled
and stirred up to rage that flows out
at unexpected moments of disintegration.
Afraid, afraid to say too much we are,
afraid to end it and break the illusion
created over so many years, and knowing
each other so well but not at all:
fools that cannot get beyond their foolishness.
We live uncomfortably in the irony
of not wanting to be alone but
overwhelmed with loneliness that
finds its ground in Intimacy Lost and
not re-found, living together in
peace when there is no peace at all.