the art of small talk

surgery uncurls in my chest.
w(e)arily, i climb the ladders of this library.
books on my left and right, i am
left in the middle with his high-tide poetry.
his words are saltysweet and catch on my fingertips
like flies on sticky paper. i browse, shamelessly.
but my heart is ticking for him.
“here, love is obsolescence.” i lose myself in logic.
scholars disabuse me of this notion.
i make a beeline for door, and check out novels on
the art of small talk & polite conversation.
they laugh. “you can’t escape like this.”
they are right. i call you again.
“maybe i’ll find common sense in the mirror today
and mama i swear it’s a storm that never abates
it just retreats quietly to get a better vantage point
hoping & praying it’s next attack will take me”
it can keep this up forever.
but i can’t.

a/n: unfortunately, replacing love with knowledge is not working. any suggestions, before i find myself in wonderland again?