On balance, there's nothing
you loathe more
than a cheater,
but lately, even you
have been tempted
to picture
the load that you carry as
someone else's
metaphor.
you think
but don't say,
as you feel yourself
blissfully
drifting off into
the blank spot
in the hot attic
of that person's
cobwebbed dark irrelevance—
that acceptance
doesn't feel nearly as
solipsistic
as futility did
exhausting.
