Can't stop thinking about him . . .

at least, him-thoughts pulse constant now

every day, all day — all night

all painful, even those that once were sweet

especially, perhaps, when they were sweet

or even bitter-sweet

but is it truly can't? or only won't, or don't?

yesterday . . .

turn the corner

where months ago we met by chance

after his dark angry phonecall night before

he cried out you look gorgeous!

hugged me really hard

o god I felt such swelling joy

asked him about the call — so you're . . . not mad?

heard my tone, small shock, that timid-silly-girly voice

he said absolutely not, his fault, all his

he'd been exhausted, would never call so late again

stressed out by zoom meet-ups — too long!

just wasn't at his best, was sorry

my heart thudded, lurched and soared . . .

each moment, every word, the light the colours

rightness of his curving hair, his scent, bright scarf he wore

his everything! all loved, all flooding back —

and same short film unfolds

each time my scuffed-up boots

attain that sacred spot

dark north corner of my street —

sad flick reruns again right now

this minute, as I write —

stupid tears back in my eyes

hurt love — love hurt? swells up inside

more primal welling too, deep, lower down

whole pathetic package, basically —

and there are hundreds of these foolish films in me

maybe something shameful seeks all that?

allows it, wants it

wants non-stop reminders

even wants the piercing pain . . .

some sickly form of masochistic love

or wouldn't it have stopped by now?

wouldn't I have somehow made it stop?

(though it's the corner of my tiny street

always there, always waiting

hard to avoid the place you live

the world

the flesh you live inside

hard while you go on, so strangely

hard while you still somehow live)