A poem I wrote on my iPhone the other day at lunch. I must have been all emo or something.
The French say orgasms are little deaths.
But I think the little deaths are our small defeats
that fold up like paper in our hearts.
A new friendship unravels
on the strings of a small comment,
something about a band being overrated
and then you’re grasping
at the tail feathers of the relationship
as it twirls slowly away and disintegrates,
a dust devil collapsing in front
of your outstretched arms.
It happens everyday.
You say something petty and cruel
and the object of your jealousy
is standing behind you,
your great idea spoken aloud
by the person directly to your right,
you kneel to pet a beagle
but come back with just a brief handful
of tail as he noses and licks
Don’t you die just a little bit each time,
doesn’t your heart reduce in its own origami,
the folds doubled and trebled,
don’t you cringe a little deeper into
the tight grave of your skin?