by definition

desire always trumps ability, this
is why parallel lines lament their distance.

it begins with the night i slipped
my feet halfway into my shoes
and i looked at you,
whispered some dramatic metaphor
about how 'halfway' was all
we were good for, and then
you whipped me
you drop-kicked me
off my plane--you always remember
the song to sing to fend
off the leaving.

it ends with the night in the near
future, when i call out
of the blue and offer you
a drink and a set of guitar strings
to replace the ones i broke trying
to play elliott smith
with a gut tinted moss-green
and electric.

we will argue. you'll hold me uncomfortably
in that near-glare, you'll mock
my fashion sense or point out how often
i spill on my shirt. you'll keep pushing
until you get your outburst
because you know i can only
be shy for so long.

you may insist
that you know what i am thinking and you'll never
get it right but you have to keep searching
for a way to impose
the connection--you always forget
parallel lines were never meant to touch,
and bending the universe to make the exception
created the chaos that got us here.