Weekend

"You need to have a woman's heart to feel this",
I think. Then I stare aimlessly. At the
acrylics on the ceiling. The tree, the little bird.
I memorize the little things, I know
I will run them over slowly all week
25 frames from a second

Then you want me to read to you Bukowski
as you cuddle up with another woman
(on the same bed we almost made love in)
and while I read to you,
Something asks me from my darkness,
"Could this be love?"

I put these questions off, one by one,
Because I do not have any right to love you
and I have broken too many hearts also
For a right to be heartbroken.

The nights slowly melt into mornings
And weekends become Mondays

And until next weekend
I know I will fidget

With thoughts about your ring
And look for you in the cafeteria,
In the fly room,
In corners, in corridors,
On labels in boxes,
But not at your desk.

I spin the chair suddenly
to feel a little bit alive
I think about that one story you said
And that drawing you made one day,
And how time is running out,
And I talk to myself,
Smoke in the terrace,
Watch a dead fly at 18 degrees.

You need to go back thirteen years
To understand this poem.