I'm only attracted to women who aren't attracted to me.
I push away the ones who come closer
and try to grasp the ones receding from me.
Another twelve rounds with my expectations
leaves me bruised and defeated,
a Pyrrhic victory.
One day it might not be my fault.

Maybe she's out there,
looking for me on a city pavement,
or a dust-worn country lane.
Elspeth, I'll call her.
She's picking apples under a hot sun.
A bead of sweat loses grip of the tip of her nose.
Why must I leave perfection to my imagination?
There are no words nor machinations
for this conflagration in my heart.

Elspeth, can I call you that?
Can I call you?

he is on the way, i can feel his breath in my ears, swelling like a dark tide. this burning in my groin has no salve. where art thou romeo? underneath my imagination's pillows, flat and hard and rough, like seas in a tempest. may i shipwreck myself on your island? a deeper shade of black spills over my walls and they enclose. save me from my inhibitions, romeo. may i call you that? it suits your tender timbre and your fragile frame. you can call me........