blind or ignorant; i don't know

i sit,
i sit,
quiet still shivering
with you
in a white porcelain bathtub
full of tepid water
that's rapidly turning cold.

you find me
drying myself
by lying in a crumpled fetal position
on the mattress
whose sheets now have
a large, wet spot.

the towel lies discarded
on the floor
as i picture you in the doorway
shaking your head and leaving
and i remember exactly
the sound of the slamming door.

i write about love because i find it the only thing worth trying to discover for myself. i know i'm cynical about it, but that's due to several false leads. i'm still idealistic (isn't that redeeming). even if it's about hate it's still about love because the two are the same, only at opposite ends.

my ideal of love is the kind that consumes. it knows no bounds and there is no escaping it. it eats you up the way hate and jealousy does. it reduces your being into a void, the way count basie and duke ellington and tchaikovsky do to me. it is neither constructive nor destructive because love has no dimensions. it goes beyond chemical and electrical signals running between synapses in your brain. love knows no expression - not objects nor words, not even in chocolate (is that sacriligious?) - because it goes beyond your fundamental existence.

unfortunately, not very many people fall in love. i myself get along just fine with its artificial substitute, (maybe i'm insensitive to it, or just incapable), although it does leave a saccharine aftertaste in my mouth.

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