I wouldn’t be me

If I were you, I wouldn’t 

be me.  And then there

would be no such

thing as gravity: neither

that which gives me

weight of personality 

not that which

continues to attract me

to you, despite the

humiliation.

And I wonder if, in this

light, whether my

judgement (and even my

judgment) is fatally

flawed (or – maybe – you’d

say that’s carpetedly

floored!) by

the grounding in pain

again and again,

like rain in sorry

plain, or steppes

taken hesitantly.  And

steppes taken plainly

amongst white sheets 

of constancy: ‘cos it’s 

curious, you know,

for in the rest of

my life, I am rife

in constant unreliable,

whereas with and 

around you

since I knew

you it’s become 

impossible for me 

to completely inconstant

myself of your 

self.  And so I ask my

self why.  And I think I know 

now the answer: it’s 

precisely because you 

are not me 

that I want so much 

to be

with you.

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