Auto Erratica


Wherefore art I Romeo’s
Understudy? If love consists of whispers
Between patio and balcony; if a kiss is a
Strange sort of alchemy that turns lips into
Song; if attraction will not succumb to redaction for long, then

Where did I go wrong?

The face in the mirror is mine but
Not my own. Yours is there, too; I’m no longer sure
Who’s me and what’s you. Love may be
True, but it’s falsehood as well. Oh, Hell.

We fell, and now we cannot
Come back from whatever pack of lies
They have fed us. Love is a myth, a
Tale that is read us when we are children,
And then we are left to wander the wilderness,
Stuck in the doubt of belief that’s gone by, and wondering

To fly, to walk in the air–
It’s hard to accept that the world up there
Is real. To feel is to hurt, to hurt is to feel; what’s the deal
With this burden I carry? A weight on my shoulders, heavier as
Older: I no longer know what it means
To care. To be fair, I’m no longer convinced of much at all.
Blame it on the fall into
Whatever it’s called. Love, or something, I think.
So they tell me. But what is the meaning when success is
To try to fly without trying? When living is dying
A little each day?

It won’t go away, this thought I’m not thinking.
I feel like

I’m sinking…