The Curator
The way the person you love
Is usually only the parts
You still remember
Distillation being one
Of the cruel necessities
For coiled existences
Which is a polite way
Of saying elimination
Sharpens the edges of love
There are others who insist
Love hides in the lapses
Lost in the folds of forgetfulness
I'm one of the curators
Of a dulled world, utterly convinced
It exists, out there, on the other side of me
Every day it’s the same old task:
Arrange a series of selected scenes
Into vaguely harmonious compositions
I told you I lack even
A sliver of self-respect
A blip on a vast black screen
As if it were up to me
Whether you stop and notice
This silly little creation
I’ve so painstakingly honed.
Look! I made it for you!
As if it could be owned.
But how did you even get here?
Wrong turn at the last light
And all you ever saw was me
What a fool I’ve been—
All this time
I only had to invite you in
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