Rei Thompson

Wrong Tree

I almost said thank you but then you reminded me:
That I am not enough.

Your words on Giovanni and Tolstoy damn near gave me the chills but then
I was confronted with the truth:

You’ve been saying that for three months come Sunday.

Sucking on a blade of fine grass, you held my hand in self-defacing misery,
But your other stories brought me back down from the melancholy hill:

For all the sweet gasps of intellectual glory (oh my, how it is eerie),
I couldn’t catch a decent breath, 
your rants on thoughtless perfume always impressed me to feel a tad ill.

I realized quickly that your moments of high-brow verbage never ensured
That you secretly had a dream for us, 
Or at least 6 months in which we together could pitifully endure.

Can’t you see my dear feigned love,
It was only my brain encouraging my mind 
To slice away the substance from the sauciness
Of your stinging wit from your façade of always-green coconut leaves
And blindingly hot bunnies with sleeves.

The twig snapped on my cerebellum branch
And a newly trembling shoot emerged. 

I floated away from your traces of musty cologne and bobdylan cigs,
To climb my own oak tree and check on a few freshly budding twigs.


© 2008 Rei Thompson