"It's just hummus," I replied.
"It's all over his hands, I've got it, no really, are you sure, 'cause I . . .".
"It's fine."
Sigh.
If it were, fine, I wouldn't be here alone,
dripping in discomfort as I reach for salvation.
If it were, ok, I wouldn't be here with two,
speaking to you,
Of how the transition from one to two
is ten times harder than I thought.
At twenty-six and smitton,
And at twenty-nine, we sacrifice,
The I for them,
All ifs for when,
See, there is no lasting then.
And, then I met she.
A whole host of choices, a set I didn't see,
And, I did, I found it beautiful.
Who could better appreciate
the continual efforts forward
the pure lack of me
but him
with his she.
He knows, and persists,
like I persist still.
And, although I know her,
without knowing any her,
I crave the savior in he.
Are you both searching?
For an out into the in?
For your self, admist
self-lessness,
your her against the she?
I complemented the response
with a certain lack of (french: that certain something)
the I, exposed.
Yes, I take it for the team-
underneath the orgy of need:
family.
Yes, I fake it.
I take it, as all hers
while longing to be shes
I take it because I can't
bear
to mistake the I from underneath.
