This crushing weight that you give to me when I come to your room undermines me
My heart flies up the stairs before me
Each time forgetting
That as soon as I walk through your door, it will be undermined

Each look of your soft eyes that isn't looking for me pains me terribly
What is this that I've become. . . . . a receptacle waiting for you to fill me?

If you were gone everything would be a hundred times better
and a hundred times better and a hundred times worse
at least I wouldn't have to wonder again when we would touch again
or make love to each other again

I would gladly become an alcoholic. I'd gladly throw this consciousness
away -- or spend it on something cheap and flimsy,
rather than on something beautiful and soft that will soon
float tragically away from me

I've asked myself before if our loves are just our external excuses for internal creativity and inspiration
Why is it that I always know that I have to lose you?