When you don’t know what you want
you sit awkward on a lot of the wrong couches
sipping drinks with lonely strangers
lonely like you, yes
but unlike you
they know they want you
but you don’t what you want

not very poetic, huh?
and so the telling of a non-story should be
trite and devoid of passion
like so many words spoken
to fill the space where she used to be
the one you left
the one with whom conversation
was never an issue
with whom nothing but the
mostly mute crash of fleshy vessels
could ever matter

like the sense of
blowing it on a couch
in the desert
with a sexy woman
the whole sad episode
doomed by an invisible wall
between you
like that fucking latex dam
the HIV counselor preached about
and that you swore you’d never use

when you don’t know what you want
nothing and no one can penetrate

you are an island


© Rick McKinney 1999

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