I’m sick of rewarding you and this fixation
with the terrible romance of manifestos.
As orgasmic as they may blossom in this space between realities
neither of us really deserves them.
That’s not to say one won’t materialize tomorrow
or the next day.
Here is the conceit of this poem:
I lie, when I don’t say “I love you” back
I lie, when you don’t hear from me
I lie, year after year after year
I’m going back to sleep now.
A coma hovers right above my face
ready to colonize.