Nicola

I think of her like that habit.
Too bad memories don't go,
won't go
farther than infant love,
wisps of romance, lace valentines,
and now we both play ring around the rosy,
ashes, ashes, we're falling down.
I want to scream away fast dreams,
like those rings that tell me
I can't get too close,
or tear her away from a quick left hook,
because oops there goes my sanity.
Woman of my midnight rendezvous,
speaking over cups of coffee too dark to see through,
breaking the decalogue of commandments,
but it's like, "eight out of ten isn't bad."
I take the hit, she takes the hit, and the cycle of,
I don't know...
this Venn diagram.
I want her,
but feelings of something like deception surface:
"I am not who I am"
makes me worry I'm being played
for the fool I don't want to be.