I have never had a life long friend,
the acquisition of such things
being an unlearned skill,
for me.

Friends can't be packed into boxes
along with the rest of the stuff
when you move away every year.

And in any event
we had a few deep dark secrets
that made friendship with others

awkward.

So it's no wonder
I can't keep a lover happy.

I'm great at first; everything they ever wanted
in a man.
But as time wears the infatuation down,
exposing the bones of the carcass ,
they start to see the raw edges
of that thing lurking next to them in the bed each night
and get tired of co-signing my bullshit.

In the meantime,
I, of course, remain
magnificently oblivious,
as I go about whatever diversion
captures my interest,
and hides me from the light of day.

Then, when the walls collapse
and I'm all alone in a big house
again,
feeling sorry for myself,
ripping out that now beating and aching heart,
padding around in baggy underwear,
in agony,

the horrible burning pain of it all
obscures anything approaching
a thoughtful reflection
on the true cause
of my own
demise.