Doux

But what am I to make of this?

I don't know what this poem
is supposed to be. I don't know
why poems even exist, what
purpose, do they serve? Is poetry
enough to save the world?

Who is it for? Is it for the
old lover who is never going to
call? I keep forgetting his face, and the
reasons why I loved him. Yet something
about him lingers in my evening
loneliness, his scent, perhaps, or the
shape of his smile. Is his smile worthy
of a poem? Is that what
this one is about?

Or is it about the sadness that
has been with me ever since
he left? My mind falters between
sorrow and sleep. I am reading a
Kafka novel and I hate it but I am
in too deep to leave it now. I realize,
for all my nihilism how out of place
I would be in a world without
emotions. I think of the Kafka who
was Felice's, who was Milena's. That is
the Kafka I love. And I realize with
despairing certainty that I love myself
better when I am in love too.

But I talk too much of myself. Is this
poem a speech, or a conversation
in my own head? Or simply a wasted
evening put into words, another one
of many where I drank too much of
tea, mourned my lover, watched
bad porn and felt nothing. The world
spins on its axis, sad people pretending
to have fun on night outs in October
lighted streets with tired feet and
fixed false smiles. I sleep in
my room, sometimes I wake up
and miss him and write sad poems
like this.

I am always a little lost. I wish I knew
what this poem was about. I wish
I could make it about whatever
I wanted it to be.