There’s still…

Mine is a winterish soul
   so cold, so cold
I worried about a lot of things
   but your shallow extremes, your perfidy
   were new to me
I don’t worry that much anymore
Experience becomes memory
   so fast, so fast
I was naive
Separated from all by invisible catastrophes
   a critical mass of cumulative blows,
   spiritual concussions
   so cold, so cold
Happiness in an instance
   so fast, so fast
The loss of self
   in a delirium of infatuation
These bright hard eyes
   in the after-math of rejection
Childish smiles from the small one, six months old
There’s still a lot of love in this house

-October 18, 2009-