The fruit on our vine has withered
I long to cut it down, but something stops me
I feel you lurking, breathing on my neck,
wishing I hated that
now unpleasant sensation
You keep appearing to me as a vision
at my window, at work,
across the road, getting gas or
exploring knee-high weeds,
observing afternoon-hot walls
Summer stinks of memories, snorkeling,
the big bug ID book, hidden peacocked notes
Hot days soothed with cold water and
indulgences rare opportunities afford
Not appreciated and never found again
I couldn’t stand to be with you now,
experiencing anew the arrows of your delusions
So why do I crave you at all? Am I so plagued with
inappropriate attention and my own maras?
Cutting the wizened fruit, so something
new can grow, still seems undoable
With a heart full of love, wishing for non-
attachment, I observe
You’re hard to let go.
The Halfwit Writer 