on the art of sap

I do not write
sappy love poems
for people I will
never really know.

This is not a sappy love poem,
and I will never really know you.

I will never really love you.

You stand in shallow light.
You stand and hold out
bleeding fingertips --
you dim away from sight.

You dim like shallow dreams.

Dreams of you in summer sun,
with whipped cream memories
and unconscious thoughts of me.
I stood in places you would never be --
you sucked my fingers in and
made them bleed.

You wrote me
sappy
love
poems.

You wrote me
sonnets,
each line
a piece of you,
but never
a piece of
me.

And so, these dreams,
these licorice and Mellow Yellow
memories of you,
fade into burning, churning paper
and words which wreak of
egocentric sympathy.

Did you ever really think of me?

Or was I a part of you so readily,
like hands or feet or lovely
blonde hair whipped by summer wind?

Will I believe these foolish stakes again?
My odds were never worth these
fingers, bleeding, numb and travelling
towards a stark reality of sap and ecstasy.

And so I sit and write myself a love poem,
and fill it with sap and drivel, believing
for a moment that I am truly loved --
by whom, I do not know.

If by myself, I don't know what I'll do.
I thought I needed you.

But I will never need
somebody who I never
really
knew.

And I will never need
somebody who resembles
memories
and
shallow
dreams
of you.

Death to the sap...discover what is true.