what do you do
when your lover stops loving you
while you haven't run out of it yet?
(it comes in a baby bottle and i sucked it dry.)
why did we do
whatever we called love
when we could have kept it?
(for the rain.)
when did i decide
whether we
were qualified for it?
(i was out of it.)
where did you put
it?
(it steered your hands
it moved your mouth
it splayed on my stomach
and on my couch.)
who are you?
(it don't know you
i don't know you)
how did we end up here
harbouring love for nothing
hopelessly in it?
(hopeless)
YOU ARE READING
i'll never be a poet
Poetryand here's the pretentious proof an ongoing anthology of the poetry of nobodi.
