I have seen too much of your angry, mesmerizing face
That has been beautiful, and how it knows its disgrace
Today, in a sadder and slower pace. How can I love you in innocence
When this is not innocent? Not innocent in any way?
Too much has come before: the many-smudged window,
Colleagues, friendships, train tickets. Pretending this is new
Is more than my love of innocence can possibly do.
The hours are confused, not knowing which ones they should be now
As we try and talk—what should we talk about, anyhow?
Many longing hours belong to the unknown past.
Our present sighs, and conversation
Cannot know why this moment cannot even for a moment last.
Innocence—inescapable—flees from desire for innocence too fast.
I should have told you a secret, like you see people in soap operas do,
With unsettling music in the background. Was there a flower
I could have offered? A ring? A necklace? A poem, fresh and new?