Not That She

needs me to say yes.  Quite the contrary.  She already has hers.
Twirling brown words flow through the pain of viscous brain.
"Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour."
I remember the car.  The street.  The night.  The words.  "You're not
acting like yourself."  What's myself?  Who is me?  Why
couldn't I have lived the life I was?  Why couldn't I
have told her the truth?  That I was so deeply in love,
so mesmerized by all that was her, that I could do no
more than pray at her alter.  Of course I acted
different!  Here was my Goddess, my kneeling honor.

Not that she wants.  Quite the contrary.  She's already been there.
Twirling brown words flow through the pain of viscous brain.
"Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes."
I remember the soft slink of her breasts.  The muted whisper
of her smile.  That smile that always beckoned guilelessly.
I was afraid to touch that smile.  It seemed to know too much.
It called my name and told me that here was my match.
Here was my end.  There was to be no more.  I needed no
more.  Now I am left, alone; mustard with my beer,
alone; praying to my memories: alone.

Not that she knows.  Quite the contrary.  She's already gone.
Twirling brown words flow through the pain of viscous brain.
"In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor."
I remember.  And now I've seen.  The memory is
blinded by the reality of what is.  It's too late.
But that's okay.  We live to learn and we live to die.
She went on.  She knew what I was supposed to be.
She found me clothed in another name.  In another
place.  As for me, well, here I am.  And there she is.
She already has hers.
She.