the only difference between love and obsession
is the quality in the threads that hold dual worlds apart –
or together as the case may be –
whether when struck they symphonically sing
or hum like garotte wire strung tight for the kill;
whether they shine like spider silk or morning-messed hair;
whether when woven they envelope or enmesh.

by the light of this lamp (golden as only artifice can be)
I could count on both hands your many smiles
and draw the way you clasped your hands just so
and recite the lines I heard you practicing,
replacing her name with mine.

I could.

I could listen to your favorite song a dozen times
and claim it as my own, just for having fallen on your ears;
I could call back the memory of skin against skin
as you took my hand in yours.
I could imitate your laugh or hers - you like hers -
I could do that if I tried hard enough –

I could twist this vassal’s rope back and forth
and feel the fibers break beneath my hands.

and in the light of this lamp I here and now forswear
the endearments I crafted with such love over the years,
and in place of that cramped list write
just one –
beginning with ‘false,’
ending with ‘hope.’