if there can be an antidote to lovesickeness
it is the three days spent splayed out on ones bed
tinkering with he lights in the room
and praying silently for death.
if you don’t spend long in there,
the time still seems to expand beyond all capacity
and you are left flooded in a
surplus of ageless minutes.
(one does not take three times as long to wake up in the morning.
one takes four.)
the hours taste like coffee.
at dinner it’s the same meal every day
lamb chops and something else you can’t taste
(in fact, you can’t taste any of it.)
in the light of day,
stock market men inquire about the rates of exchange
and the butchers barter over the sale of veal,
but you can’t put a price on anything.
the gardens behind ones house are like solitude
but they only mock it.
it is a mock solitude,
one not to be confused with the kind
spent gazing thru a soft sunlit window,
the eyes lost in an expression
we have no words for.
one may sit in the chair,
becoming absorbed in ones own thoughts
(but this leads to delirium.)
if one should desire to be cheerful,
putting on a smile can usually do the trick
in its ironical conceit
and is a marvelous deception
for those not aware of their outward expression.
Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry