Is life unisex, like an indie band
you vaguely remember from a film
watched with the girl next door—
the quiet one, painting swimming pools
full of sea wasps and talking
about second choices, whom you admired
for her freckles and occasional mischief,
and who was mostly indifferent,
though casually cruel—your only
intended girlfriend?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I’m trying to recall when
a caress turned into a doss—
a simple muscle memory feat—
only to dissipate like an ache
after double paracetamol
and the cold shoulder.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Between commercials and restless sleep, I worry about the closet romantic
who mocks karaoke—mediocre covers of his favourite myths—just to maintain
a cold demeanour that was supposed to shield him from getting hurt again,
because if one day he realises the cure is worse than the disease, I might lose
a convenient fallback topic that distracts from that innate indifference of mine.
Between Harry’s pecan pie and Sally’s ham sandwich,
I had a square of dark chocolate, and then it came to me
that if he can hide a disappointment and she can fake an orgasm,
I can consider myself lucky—in the end, no one hated me;
they were just indifferent, and though not quite what I expected,
what fun would it be to always know in advance
that love was what you pretended it to be?
hidden pilcrow 