Try It

To close your eyes
would make memory
burn their lids
from inside.

You can have it.
I’ll take liberties
with that.

Sweet nothings?
We lay them like snares,
you don’t fall so much
as get hung up.

To picture you perfect,
we always do.
Like Joyce’s Michael Furey in “The Dead”.
The Idea is always better.

You are crazy,
I’m just as bat-shit,
to pair up with you.

Hate grows from seeds
sewn in the soil of love.

The more you give someone
the more its not enough.