reprise

why do you click the link?

you already know what I am going to say

vaguely at least

before you even start

reading a word:

her hair yada yada

that skin yada yada

those eyes….

 

vomit.

 

I’m selling myself a bill of goods

and you damn well know it-

and yet

like a car wreck

reality TV…

you can’t HELP but watch.

Voyeur.

 

You seek it out.

it’s only a matter of time

until

the dreamer

explodes,

a popped balloon;

or marches off into posterity

as the star crossed idiot

the “it” guy

who believed in something

that never even existed.

 

“he has to know,” you’ll tell your friends

over a latte

or the water cooler

“He has to see it’s

all the same

as it

ever

was.”

 

“She’s the same thing he

has clung to

scratched at

longed for

persistently

smiling coyly his direction

from

anyone else’s arms

but his.”

 

It’s kryptonite.

It’s nuclear on a grand scale

a plague borne in

the waste the last one

left behind

and one can never expect

the poets

the dreamers

the lovers

the believers

these men of such

extreme

faith

to see any of it

until it’s far too late.

 

“She’ll slam the door on him

when faced with the offer

of what MIGHT be behind

door number 3.”

” And if she didn’t ,

if by some sleight of hand,

he pulled something out of nothing…

the resentment he would garner for

having figured something out

about her

would wash away the

stench

of momentary glory.”

These are the things you,

dear reader,

know to be true

before you ever click the title

and wander

back into the soap opera

with glowing expectations

of dismal loss

and the excruciating agony

of love

that never really was.