Each time she posts
a poem like this,
I think of that scene
from Taxi Driver,
looking at myself
in the mirror and
asking: “Are you talking to me?”,
never truly knowing if I am
the target of what she writes,
or if I am merely imagining things,
having been so long in this dessert,
parched for any sign of anything
that might quench my thirst,
reading things into
the tea leaves
I want to read,
rather than what is
really there,
life being too
complicated
to define in any medium
short of an epic
poem,
the rise and fall of
empires,
the slow decline of
what could have been
yet never was.
“Are you talking to me?” I ask,
I get only the howl
of the dessert wind
in response.
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