thinking about it and realizing how stupid
the way i think about my aloneness usually is.
a waste of a perfectly good pair of green eyes--
their color deep, saturate, and intricately transient--
a pair of fine lips,
and a functioning bodily mechanism.
besides which, i am
a nice person.
someone somewhere might be
lucky to have me
maybe.
idiotic, all of it, because i am
none of these things--i am
a series of caverns of
a velvet blackness; i am
a veiled set of tastes.
heat and unfathomabilities--
i am lined with secret aspects
and none of them are nice,
no one would do anything so simple
as be lucky to have
any of them...
i am not misunderstood--
i am not undervalued--
i am
simply
not available.
but i do wish things were different.
and that longing makes me stupid.
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