Account of an Experience in Feeling & Sight

the day after acid, i slept ’til 1,
woke up briefly, suggested a vegetarian burger and sex in the shower,
then fell asleep again.
upon waking at 6, i began the cooking that would continue on long past midnight.
artichokes,
boiled in an inch of water, with garlic butter sauce.
tang, and that smell: of my dad, my childhood
eating with my hands and taking care not to eat the thready hairs
that would choke you. pangs of emotion in this, I almost cry.
all the while
juxtaposed by some kind of hate I feel
for the man at my side. the thing, the innocuous floater
that does not question nor speak nor reason with my intellect.
only these sparse daily interactions that are frankly numbing.
such an inherent inability to see me; is that why you keep explaining things
I already know, relating words that I can already hear?
why do you do that? is it stupidity or patronizing arrogance?
is it me? my belligerent power drive
to stomp out your voice? or is it little more
than a cool wind with llovizna in its wake,
leaving you with a chill that transforms into
a bitter, life-long cold.
the common cold chill that is a love
shared by two people

who do not really like each other.

we must learn to love.
we must learn to love.
we must learn to be, then love.

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