I have stopped counting,
the days, for they are now
just seconds and hours that pour away
into the blankness of life.

It doesn't pain me because it is an
understanding that for you
love could never mean anything
more than a prolonged feeling of monochromia.  

You have fallen,
and fallen again.
Love is nothing more than
a chasing game for you.

But if I had never
come into your life,
what could, in your ways of life,
it have proved?

Nothing.

It was the mischief of the cosmos
that wanted us to be.
Else the weaves of the universe
would come undone.

We have our stories
already written
by a known
hand.

All we are,
are characters
waiting.
Till our curtain falls.

you told me once when i was
at the younger side of the ten
years between us that sorrow
was so familiar to you it ran
daily through your (nervous)
system. a tragic blood type,
you said. be grateful that you
are neither donor nor receiver
and your inertia will carry
you through.
  
                               tonight you
sat in the living room and tried
to explain the mystery of who
he is to your father. his first
love died in his arms as a
teenager. he went to military
school, reform school, but he
could never escape his tragic
fate.

         know this now: your
father will not understand. he
will nod and nod but his
tragedies were penned by
sophocles, your own
shakespearean; they belong
to different times. he will not
understand.

                       your father thinks
your blood type is the one
printed on the laminated card
in your wallet. your father finds
the man you love neurotic. your
father is a great man but his
veins are built for fire and steel

and yours are made for sorrow.