A Trite United Nations of Lovers

Tinted Windows and Dreams

I see you some nights in the form
of fictitious beauty that my subconscious
created. It is odd how you won’t leave.

I once spent a day with you on your
leather couch after we floated atop
of Hyco Lake like buoyant lovers.
I left you to your recliner
and walked out, bag in hand,
one of my proud decisions.

My buoyancy was always more
precise than yours. Perhaps I am
remembering you now because
I am alone. I am exploring old stamps.

I was an obsessive fool, and you
were just a fool staring at me
from below my float, your iris
like dirt in the front fork of a Harley.

I have learned there must be a balance
of obsession. I have teetered on
those fault lines for so long between
Heaven and Hell, God and Satan,
hot and cold, right and wrong.

Sometimes I ride by your house
in an attempt to bring back my ignorance,
and sometimes I turn the music up
and drive just a little faster,
the cool factor.

I never stop, though.
I’ll see you tonight anyway.
You’re always hunched in a corner
somewhere, dirty eyes and all.