i’m sorry if i can’t love you,
for i am a frayed soul of broken stardust and streetlamps,

i keep your fragrance in my closet
as though it were an old ghost holding up a flower for you to wear
but i’m afraid of romance
and i cower in corners when pretty girls
try to show me a better world in their dreams

for love was a sickly thing that hid under my bed when i slept,
and it has come to mean nothing more to me
than that first dance, a few poems and phone calls,
and sex that drips like strychnine into memory.

would you feel better with a kiss,
or would the beat of my heart bruise yours?

i do not know what to tell you,
except that your existence only lives in an etch in moleskin;
it is a beautiful portrait, and it hurt my fingers,
so perhaps you would like it.

would you think of me solemnly?
i couldn’t care less. but please do not keep the fire burning.
love does not knock on these doors anymore,
and i wouldn’t want you to feel the same way.

find another boy who isn’t in love with misery,
make sure that this one isn’t into poetry.