I’m unable to shrug off this feeling and {sen[t]



I’ve loved you for just under a year.

I’ve resisted every moment

and second

and tiny

min of max-


mum {at

tension}: silent, as mostly I’ve been.

I sometimes wonder if I am sorely


as if this is the infirmity I need to be diagnosed

with; as if – in this – a DSM VI will somehow

home in on my madness

and tread heavily towards my final incarceration.


What puzzles me most

is how it might be poss

not for a man of my age to fall in love with you

but for a woman like you,

so goddamn beautiful,

to fall in love with a man like me:

wrinkling and half-baking

in so many things, I am but a wizening

(these days, never

wise!) versioning

of the self I once could have been.

And the worst of it, quite possibly,

is that – even more so than that! –

in my mind I have already given you up as beyond

any sensible right for an age like my own

to marry itself

to the beauty you obviously {re



And so now I see

I am unable to forget you; always have

been since I met you; always now

will since I leave you.

And I apologise if all this disgusts you,

as on one occasion

I now remember

just the thought of me disgusted your brother.


For I’m just a man wishing to be hugged

by a woman who might

find him huggable.

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