I could take out the recycling
and die if I don’t
run into him. I could sit
in the garden and die
if he doesn’t walk by.
I am in love with my neighbor.
Is it obvious
a pandemic rages,
that we’ve all
been stuck inside?
My neighbor is a professional.
He rides his motorcycle
to fly big jets. I hear him leave
from my bed. From my couch,
I hear him come back. He’s
too sexy to get furloughed.
The airlines would miss him,
they’d fold. Last night,
he taught me to disarm
his gun. I do love a man
whose priority is safety,
but I think I’ll die anyway:
the long, slow, excruciating
death of wondering if today
he’s forgotten about me.
Once I was not living but merely
surviving. Now I am not
surviving at all. I read in a book
The worst has already happened
but when he comes home
I forget all my plans. I think I intended
to shower. Shall I crawl there?
I am in love with my neighbor.
I’ll die if he doesn’t
text back. He’ll come home
and I’ll know, or he won’t
and then, O misery, where
would he be? I’d be here,
dying of guessing, listening
to Lover by Taylor Swift.
In one song, she thought
something would kill her
but it didn’t. I felt
a little sorry for her.
You should have let it, Taylor!
Let me rewrite your song.
You thought that it would kill you
and it did. You’re singing this
from the afterlife, where only
those brave enough to live die.