“love makes me think too much”
–Roland Barthes
Divining the nuances of desire
From each word she said to him,
He teased out the conversations
They might have had, and
Reinscribed the one’s they did
Into more palatable designs,
Until variation encased him like frost
Devouring vision across a windowpane.
Did she say what he heard?
Was his context close to hers?
He could’ve asked, but fear dissuaded
Him into quandaries of inaction,
Until all, which might have been,
Had drifted into oblivion.
(August 5, 2017)
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