And I get torn
by he and she, tugged between
their diverging stars,
she tells me

that I have the makings of an owl,
the moles on my nose and right breast are just right,
how in the night she has thoughts of me
and breaks her wineglass against the table.

And so,
he tells me
that it is not cold beneath the window, because I am warmth,
a red celestial orbiting this fog ridden city, my hips, my shoulders
four fires on the water, balanced
upon lily pads, drifting out, away from him.

I get crunched
in the words they profess to me, frightened
at the prospect of never really loving anyone as they deserve to be.
Somewhat unaware
of how empty are the rooms
I wander through, carrying my hot confection of water, brown sugar, honey.

I do not get lonely. It is odd.
Regardless if it be days, years, or hours
I am not afraid of the blank slate, never fearful
of having no arms other than mine; merely I question
the validity of my affections
I proceed to hand out
like carnations.

But I miss, I can miss, I often miss
the corner curl of her lips, his bombastic attempts
at romance, their silhouettes
departing from my stoop,
the colors of their bodies braced against the dawn.

I wish they would leave me,
stop calling, stop caring, stop forgiving me my incompetence
of how not to move on, not knowing
how to be a broken heart.
She tells me
I am too sharp.

He tells me, I don’t know how to be
a modern-day human being.
That I am old in my soul, too old
for the verisimilitudes of youth.

And here,
they rip me open, but I only
can spill the slightest of down cast eyes,
the softest,
most muted
of small sighs.