the eye can't see

The eye can't see what you've done to me,
and I know it may be hard to believe.
If I told you in full what a fool I am,
and have been, and want to be again,
you'd agree with me. But on just
the wrong thing. And I can't see

why you shouldn't, love.

It's nothing to me if I live or die,
without you I mean. If I die, that is.
If I live without you, that's not
"nothing at all," it's excruciating.
And boring, to start. And worse
to go on, but I will go on! Still,
it wouldn't be nothing to me, to live,
with you gone.

If I live with you, though, that

is everything. I know it would be

everything that I want, and everything else
I am willing to take, just to find out
what else comes

with the plate. And you know,

it's nothing to me if I die, without you.
But I will go on, because I'm the one

who pretty much has to. Man.

This poem took a depressing turn.

The way it started out, I expected something
with sharp pangs of romantic yearning leading
on to triumphant uplift, but apparently
"fuck that!" said the poem. The poem

isn't convinced that's where these things
lead. And I can't convince the poem,
on my own.

Will you help me?

All you'd
have to do is,
come running and jump
into my arms, and ravish me. The poem

would then be so ashamed. "Well, color
me wrong," the poem would cringe.

And we could go on
to do whatever we wish!
Secure in love's victory
over art, and its cynical certainties.

Wherever we'd go

from there, after that,

we would have to be pretty pleased.