Narcissists In Love
sometimes when i get tired
of talking to myself
and all the parts
--out there somewhere:
i take the mirror from its place
and write on the wall behind us.
when i get angry at the telephone
because it won't talk,
i throw it behind us, too.--
there are more holes than there are words.
and i can't get sentimental about the cracks.
any time i want, i can tear the wall down;
but so far, there's been nothing but the wall between us
for me to write my words on.
--so you think it's the only thing
that keeps me talking.
that i see nothing but the desired object;
that i desire nothing beyond the thin reflection of myself
covering the smooth distance, and soft holes
i'm not allowed to get sentimental about.
but i won't get mental either.
i have my thoughts,
everyone has thoughts.
i'm looking for something with more substance,
than mere images and words.
more thoughts than to slide on and off
the wall.
leaving nothing but raw traces of my love
held up by your protection
from the birth of a separate object
between us.
with nothing but dancing by the bed,
and tortured knife pokes in the mattress.--
we're both narcissists in love.
you think with nothing between our hopeful touch
that one of us will kill us.
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