I have loved you, until your love directed inwards,
And I wrote to you, commemorating that love-
this very draft here replaced the old one-
a beautifully composed pack of lies.
Perhaps that sort of love is meant to be
written over and over again.
Some sort of ecstasy in pain
Out of my skin, in yours, must we begin
to recount the old story of obsession?
Shall I be content with the old sin?
Or can it wane?
But here I am at the old site of commemoration
Rewriting myself, and perhaps
this love is important. For all love
is subjective to the point of
So I shall come back again.
Tonight. Every night.
This poem shall change every night.
Watch this chameleon space.
It is your face.
A terribly thwarted textual construct.
Nothing more, nothing less.
A simulacrum of real love
Forever- changing, hyperreal mess.