We call it

Had he never met you—
   the pain, languor, shadowy remembrance
It grows narrower, paler down this path
   the further they advance...
After the birth, the love and the laughs

He’s wanted to kill her a thousand times
   but he won’t murder
He hates the very streets they walked on
   but won’t kill her
Hell’s this crass, sharp sorrow he was born, if you will, to feel

Welcome to her senescence:
   Men don’t look her way anymore
Their wives no longer revile her or care
   Her face is shriveled, ugly and old
like some blistered, brackish soul

Intimate friends are no fair witness,
   have no great insight into our character
The stolid criminal seems just like us
   Guilty of the acts and unconscious of the crimes
Such is their vile, servile, brilliance in this life

We exaggerate their strengths
   and extenuate our own—
We make up our minds beforehand
   It’s imprinted inside—what we’re likely to like...
Then we meet her by chance and call it love at first sight


-March 17, 2013-