you realize an ex-lover will
give another an alteration of the love she
once showed to you;
and thinking how the love she will
receive will
be alien from the love you
once showed to her.
It is a souring, burnt feeling,
like carbon caking the esophagus,
like the copper of pennies in the back of your throat,
like Hemingway once said in that short story, about running from battle.
Love like language lost over time.
What translates the two?
What if the translation is incomplete?
The Rose Stone carries the heart only so far.
What medium will it be expressed in?
"A vinyl record of pidgin-love-songs will
sound terrible on the sonogram of her
heart," you say to yourself.
But you do not smile.
You know her history.
She craves communication.
You wish you could help her despite your burnt out throat,
like the smoke of too many cigarettes.
Your language already lost, and must be
relearned,
relearned,
relearned.
You need to study.
