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i don't know. this was written too quickly.

i tell him not to read,

i write.

such melancholy praise.

spur of the drinking

turn of phrase.

so he asks

"am i the first person you loved?

because i can't stand this accusation

like i should feel ashamed.

you write sometimes

as if i was to blame."

no, you're not the first.

and i'll admit

i love you best...

but we shouldn't pretend.

and admit.

nobody ever puts these things

entirely to rest.

 

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

It is odd how, on a planet with billions upon billions of people, we embrace a notion of there being "the one" for each of us, the existence of only one person uniquely qualified to be loved by a specific someone else; the rejection of such a notion comes with no small danger--it is an "accusation" to be suspected of harboring notions that there could be someone else, and something blameworthy if that is indeed the case. This is a skillfully crafted examination of such a notion within the context of a relationship--it would seem that the matter-of-fact, slightly detached tone of this poem would be an odd fit for such a possibly combustible question, yet it works very nicely indeed. This is some fine, fine writing.