It was consensual:
something I thought
I wanted.
...something about Trotsky
and an ice pick—
I thought there was more;
I thought he wouldn't die.
I had made love before—
but, I realized,
never (been) fucked
before.
I was emptied,
invaded, by a stranger.
I
thought he
was a—
I wanted to fly
to Bohemia;
I trusted him.
We were two strangers
disappointed by
one another;
neither of us turned
out to be what
the other one
expected.
We were disappointments
to one another—
There was no sensuality involved;
it wasn't what
you wanted.
Want me to go
and break his nose?
I've made
repeated attempts
to drive my point home:
You're looking for love
in all the wrong places.
Do you understand now
what an empty
act it can be?
He shouldn't have pressured
you.
Defenestration
is nothing
like flying.
Bohemia
was nothing
like Utopia.
Trust is something you earn;
he was a stranger.
Do you understand now
what we had
and consider it a possibility
that at some point,
we might return
to what was?
